Equilibrium
by Drosoph1la
Summary: Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. This story encompasses the events of TFA and TLJ as well as the protagonists' past leading up to these and explores how they became what they are.
1. Prologue

**EQUILIBRIUM**

* * *

 _Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards._

Søren Kierkegaard – Journals

* * *

 **PROLOGUE:** **Outer Space: ABY 04/09/22 GST**

 _Thus shadow owes its birth to light._

John Gay _– The Persian, Sun, and Cloud_

How was the cosmos born?

Some people say it emerged out of the unity of the Cosmic Force and the Living Force. Others, who don't believe in those old fairy tales, say it hedged from an egg.

What is an egg, though? Egg white and yolk. So you could say both explanations more or less amount to the same.

The man examining questions like this, for example the nature of Dark energy by monitoring supernovae as standard candles, somewhere so far out in the Unknown Regions that even the passage of a giant space turtle would have left him unfazed, felt a sudden lurch in his stomach.

He was accustomed to pain, in his stomach as much as elsewhere in his aged, maimed body, but this was different. He closed his eerily blue eyes and, in his mind, followed the aching until he thought he had traced it back to its source. _Nasciturus_ , flashed through his head, and: _powerful light_.

But where there was much light, there inevitably was much shadow, too.

x X x


	2. A Bad Beginning - A Bad Ending

**I. A BAD BEGINNING / A BAD ENDING**

 _The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart,  
and all they can do is stare blankly._

F. Scott Fitzgerald – The Great Gatsby

* * *

 **1\. on the planet Crait, ABY 30/05/11, 04:34 GST**

 _This is foolish...why do I hurt so? I scarcely knew her. I would have given her worlds of her own,  
strung like sapphires and emeralds on a silken cord. I would have given her... I keep thinking of her eyes, toward the end.  
Cold eyes. Weighing me dispassionately, finding me wanting_

Dream _– Sandman_

In the palm of his hand, he holds the dice that had once decorated the Millennium Falcon's bridge. A silly memento, a symbol of luck when Kylo knows that there is no such thing as luck. Luck, chance, coincidence – nothing but fig leaves for human minds to hide behind, unable to face the inconceivable truth that nothing in the universe is the result of chance. Everything that happens has been fixed in the moment the universe has come into existence, everything is the mere result of something else, be it on the astronomical, physical, geological, biological or chemical level…

Treasured tenets of faith such as this aren't enough to distract him though and bring no comfort either. Just like you can't really look at the sky and enjoy a rainbow after just having been struck repeatedly by lightning. This is an unmitigated disaster, from beginning to end; disaster isn't nearly strong enough a word for the unholy mess of galactic proportions into which he has managed to manoeuvre himself in less than twenty-four hours. How the hell did this all go so terribly wrong?!

As if he isn't in enough of a state, he suddenly senses the atmospheric change announcing _her_ presence and startled, looks up in spite of himself. She doesn't notice him for another second or two until she turns towards him, but it's not nearly enough time for him to get a grip on himself. None of his grand declarations of enmity assert themselves, not even his fury with her manages to come through. He looks up to her exactly as he feels – like a man with a large knife buried in his chest, a knife he dares not pull out for fear of bleeding to death, a knife she grabs with her gaze.

They stare at each other, on Kylo's part entreating, willing her to come back, _begging_ her to come back, on her part resolute as well as resigned. A twist of the blade. He sees her touching something next to her and a metal door closes between them with a little thud that makes him recoil physically.

He looks down at the dice in his hands which dissolve into thin air before his eyes, telling him that if there ever _was_ chance, it now is gone, too.

x X x

 **2\. on the planet Lucazec, ABY 08/09/21 GST**

 _I wanna run, I want to hide  
I wanna tear down the walls  
That hold me inside._

U2 _– Where the Streets Have No Name_

Imagine a night in the spaceport of Bak-Was on the mining planet Lucazec (pop.: 4.5 million (official); actual population taking slaves into account: 10.2 million, nickname: 'the Pits'). Imagine a backstreet with a washing salon so dirty from the outside that no right-minded housewife would dream of doing her laundry here, its windows so often graffitied that no light from the streets ever fell inside. Imagine a nervous girl of uncertain age (perhaps eighteen, if you look at her skin, or sixty, if you only go by the look in her lacklustre brown eyes) checking her surroundings five times before clambering into one of the huge washing machines in the darkest corner with a yellow Out of Order sign. She exited on the other side in a tiny black room. The only thing visible in this room was a fluorescent arrow. She followed the arrow – and another – before finding herself in a shady tavern filled to the brim with people that for various reasons the official population of Lucazec deigned to ignore existed.

The girl had had half a dozen names in her short life, but mostly people called her Sugar. She was very pretty (that was her curse), the only stain on her otherwise impeccable beauty was a large gash on the side of her neck which she had tried to cover up with a scarf. Aside from that scarf, she wasn't wearing much but a skimpy bikini top and a skirt that barely covered her behind. If anyone had looked closely, they would have seen that she'd cut both from sackcloth with nail scissors, but she reckoned her chances were better the less clothes she wore. In her (far too large) experience, men didn't ask too many questions if you gave them something to look at.

She had no money, so she aimlessly ambled around on the look-out. So far, she'd successfully warded off the attentions of ten men or more who all had the misfortune not to possess a ship. Some of them offered her money, for which she had no use; _she_ needed to find someone with a ship ready to take off within the next six hours and willing to take her with him on the sly. Her heart was already sinking when she was approached by yet another man. He wasn't exactly handsome, his kind face similarly hard to gauge in age as hers and his light brown hair definitely on the thinning side. He gestured at her scarf and she expected the same kind of stupid chat-up that she'd heard ten times before tonight, something like ' _feeling cold, darling? I can make you hot_ ' or worse.

Instead he muttered, "Your scarf is slipping." Her hands flew up to her throat in terror as he went on, "This isn't very subtle."

She only goggled at him, clueless what he was talking about. She didn't know the word 'subtle'.

"You cut out your chip, didn't you?" he continued, and seeing her getting tense, rushed to add, "Don't worry, I won't give you away."

Well, if it was cards-on-the-table time anyway – "Do you own a ship?"

He scoffed. "Do I look like I had one? Mind you, does _anyone_ round here look like they had that kind of money?"

She cast a confused look over the crowd and realised he must be right. But – but – what else could she do – where else was she to go – she'd got only some more hours before they'd notice she'd gone –

"I don't have a ship, but I think I can help you anyway," he said soothingly. "What's your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be," she replied automatically, receiving an irritated glance in return.

"I mean seriously."

"I don't… Most people call me Sugar. And you?"

"Most folks call me Jorn."

She cast him an imploring look. "Look Jorn, I don't have much time. You know why. Can you really get me out of here?"

"Yeah. I'm working on a freighter; the pilot is a pal of mine. He's alright. We can hide you in the cargo hold."

The girl calculated her chances. The guy might be a liar just wanting a quick knee-trembler in a back alley, he might be a killer even. But death was on the menu this way or that. The first time she'd run away, she'd got only a severe beating when they found her. The second time, electro shocks. The third time, the damned chip that would have prevented her leaving the house if she hadn't cut it out with the same nail scissors that fashioned her outfit. When they hauled you back the fourth time, they made _absolutely sure_ you never ever ran away again.

It wasn't such a difficult decision after all. "How fast can we leave?"

At once, it turned out. Jorn gave her his jacket and led her to a rear exit, and not an hour later, she was – apparently safely – stowed away between the cargo on his ship. Jorn even provided her with a crew jumpsuit and a blanket. Time to honour their deal. She tried to kiss him but he turned his head away.

"You don't have to do that."

"I owe you."

"You owe me nothing."

She halted, then her gaze fell onto the blanket. The jumpsuit. The food he'd given her.

"But I want to."

x X x

 **3\. on the planet Crait, ABY 30/05/11, 04:30 GST**

 _Men of ill judgement oft ignore the good  
That lies within their hands, till they have lost it._

Sophocles _– Ajax_

As a child, Kylo knew when his mother was anywhere near because of her very distinct perfume. As he now leads his troops into the bunker, he's hit by the same sense of recognition, not because of any lingering perfume (the air smells of nothing but burnt metal) but because of the impression in the Force his mother left behind.

But it _can't_ be. She's dead, he saw it with his own eyes. He felt how she was sucked out into space, the cold, the agony! He's been in mourning for three days! Well, most of the time. Much of the time. At times…

Adding to his confusion is the wave of relief flooding through him. Thank heavens, she's alive! Oh thank you, thank you, thank –

Kylo is only too painfully aware that the Leader of the Resistance is alive ought to be no matter of joy for the new Supreme Leader of the First Order, all the more after declaiming so forcefully that the past is dead and if it isn't yet, it damned well better roll over and die already. He's staked everything on that claim.

Damn it, he really is his father's son. Staking the farm on one chance and losing it all with one throw of the dice!

Relief is quickly and completely superseded by ever-growing horror as in the outskirts of his brain realisation dawns on him that the very reason for this campaign of vengeance doesn't really exist. Worse. His mother may be alive, but it can only be a matter of minutes until his troops have rounded her up (she and her people must be fleeing on foot) and, as per his own orders, executed her with extreme prejudice.

There's a door, her lingering presence feels stronger there, and he really needs a moment to himself. So he indicates his guards to stay where they are as he steps inside. It's an ancient control room, dusty, squalid and overall deserted, but he can sense she's been here. Something incongruously shiny and golden is glittering on the grubby floor, something he's recognised before even discerning what it is.

The very dice generations of Solos have betted their lives on.

x X x

 **4\. on the planet Umgul, ABY 09/06/13 GST**

 _No goddess was your mother._

Virgil _– Æneid_

In a cramped little hut made of corrugated iron, a young woman was screaming at the top of her lungs. The pain was excruciating; you never got used to it, you only forgot. She alternated sipping rotgut from a bottle and biting onto a piece of wood while pressing the damned thing out. At first, Jorn had tried to help, but she had yelled at him to leave her alone, or if he wanted to make himself useful, see she got another bottle of booze before this one was empty. She knew what she had to do, this wasn't the first (what might have happened to the others? She didn't know nor care), she knew the pain wouldn't last forever – but right now, she found that hard to believe.

Someone had once told her that the Zabrak – or the Darnumians? She always mixed them up – didn't give birth like this. They laid tiny little eggs somewhere, thousands of them, and those got fermented – fertilised? Forfeited? – and then some lucky babies grew out of those, all by themselves, without tearing their mothers to pieces in the process! That was a sensible method, why couldn't it be like that?! Why was she forced to push seven pounds of fully-fleshed bones out of her?!

And something was wrong with this one, she could tell. It wasn't bigger than any of the others, it wasn't dead – quite the contrary. It was as if this one contained _more_ life, more – _something_. It was thankfully quick, too; she was only on her second bottle when she gave that final push.

Maybe it was only because she was so drunk, but looking into the baby's happy face (could a baby even look happy? Geez, she must be truly sloshed!), she found her absolutely perfect, and that was what Jorn said, too, once he got to see her.

x X x

 **5\. on the planet Yavin 4, ABY 10 (spring, summer) GST**

 _Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do.  
Don't bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself. _

William Faulkner

"Cal Merone is joining up –"

"He's not _joining_ _up_ , Poe. He's going to the Academy," his mother replied, not as patiently anymore because they had had this particular conversation eight times before that day.

"He's gotta go to the Academy _in order_ to join up."

Shara closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath. "Let it go, Poe. For a start, you are too young –"

"I'm ten times the pilot that Cal is!"

"Maybe. But he is fourteen and you are not."

"I'm almost twelve!"

"I'm not saying you weren't, I'm saying let us have this discussion when you're fourteen."

"But you were General Organa's pilot, you can make them take me even if I'm only –"

"I'm not going to do any such thing, my boy. I couldn't, even if I wanted to, which believe you me I don't. You can't even look over the steering wheel if you're not sitting on a thick book."

This piece of deliberate cruelty (the kid was very sensitive about being rather on the short side) struck her almost as much as her son, and once again, Poe stamped his feet and trudged off, moping, but as soon as his father got home, they had the same talk _again_ , with much the same results.

"Those next two years are going to fly by on silver wings," Kes drily remarked once their son was in bed, still sulking.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll calm down again once the Merone boy is off."

Kes nodded half-heartedly. To a kid like Cal Merone, there were only two possible reactions – well, three, actually. You gotta love him, or hate him, or like in Poe's case: both at the same time. Cal Merone was in a league of his own. Tall, slender and handsome, friendly and funny, terribly clever and gifted on every field he tried his hand. And this frightful prodigy lived only six houses down the road, together with his proud, loquacious mother and braggadocious father, so naturally, when Cal, aged six, had taken on to learn fathier-riding, Poe (aged four) had tried to mount one of them, too, but a wild one in the jungle, and broken a leg and his collarbone for his pains. When Cal had won a school medal for reading, Poe had stayed up all night for weeks trying to make his way through the sixteen volumes of _The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Republic_. When Cal had begun to take flying lessons, Poe had nagged his mother until she had surrendered and started teaching him, too. Poe had broken almost every bone in his small, wiry body trying to emulate Cal Merone, and while it was true that he had picked up a spate of useful skills and experiences on the way, Kes counted the days until the older boy was gone.

However, the trouble wouldn't end here. He was aware that, taking after his mother, Poe was a born pilot, and if he was to make anything of this gift, joining the Naval Academy on Coruscant as soon as possible was his best bet. As the child's father, Kes had very mixed feelings about that. Being a military pilot was, no doubt, as exciting a job as it could possibly be; you gotta see the galaxy, you were admired and rather well-paid. It was also intensely dangerous, all the more if you were a hothead like little Poe.

Well, Cal eventually left for Coruscant, Poe turned twelve and grew two whole inches over the summer, and every single day he worked on his parents. He wheedled and coaxed, he whined and pouted, he stormed and threatened to run away and one evening, when she couldn't find him at once, Shara was convinced that he really had, only to find he had fallen asleep in a shed on the tiny airfield.

That night, she talked to her husband calmly, copiously, and very much resigned. Kes didn't see things her way at once, but in the course of hours and hours of discussion, he slowly came around. Next morning, she asked her boss for some days off and without telling Poe what she had in mind, took a train to Yavin 4 Space Port where she changed onto a transporter to Coruscant.

She might have underestimated her son's acumen (or boundless optimism) though. Even if she had claimed to go on a 'business trip', Poe did not doubt for a second that she really went to pull some strings. In his mind, he followed her every step on the way, how she was asserting her eminence among her former colleagues, how they were all _awed_ by his _incredible_ skills, how she was securing her boy a premature place at the Academy. Even though most of his guesses were mistaken, he was still almost right in the outcome. Five days later, Shara Bey boarded the transporter _Glory Hound_ in Val Denn on Tinnel IV. Val Denn housed a minor subsidiary of the Naval Academy which, and that was the kicker, accepted exceptional students younger than the mandatory fourteen if they proved to show extraordinary promise. Poe would have to take a practical exam in order to be accepted, and either he passed it, or if he didn't, his mother trusted that he would at least see sense and wait another two years to apply.

What neither Shara nor Poe foresaw, however, was that the _Glory Hound_ in whose third class she was now sitting uncomfortably, perusing a magazine, had a fault in its deflector shield projector. They could not have known that the pilot, covering for a colleague, had been awake for forty-nine hours already when, upon starting to make planetfall on Yavin 4 at last, he encountered difficulties with the steering. Consequently, the ship hit the planet's stratosphere at a slant angle that caused the ship's hull to superheat to such a degree that the fuel tanks exploded.

People on the planet's surface saw what they believed to be a strange supernova exploding in bright daylight over their heads; thirty-six seconds later they also heard it and got to understand that this was no celestial occurrence far, far away.

x X x

 **5\. on the planet Crait, ABY 30/05/11, 03:55 GST**

 _Allow me to offer my congratulations on the truly admirable skill you have shown in keeping clear of the mark.  
Not to have hit once in so many trials, argues the most splendid talents for missing._

Thomas De Quincey _– Works_

The strain and lack of sleep must be catching up with him, because Kylo sees a fata morgana emerge out of the burning breach they've cut in the bunker's massive gate. He blinks once, twice, but the figure's still there, calmly striding towards them without a care in the world. It's too far away to make out anything with naked eyes but a blob of brownish colour, yet Kylo knows who it is without casting even a glance at the enlargers.

"Stop!" he snaps, an ambiguous statement which his subordinates interpret as an order to stop the advancing AT-ATs. By now, they too think they recognise who this is coming towards them there. It's a highly discomforting notion mitigated only by the fact that they're in the presence of Kylo Ren, the mightiest warrior any of them's ever seen.

Said new leader shares little of their confidence at this moment; he has to force his voice to sound cool giving out the order, "I want every gun that we have to fire on that man."

Because that's all he is! A mere _man_. An _old_ man, come to that. And one with which Kylo still has some scores to settle!

"Do it," he states, ignoring Hux's sceptic mien.

Obediently, the first AT-AT takes a beautifully aimed shot before the _Finalizer's_ entire ground forces open fire in unison. The barrage is deafening as enough ammunition to obliterate a small city is aimed at this one spot, but Kylo senses the presence has not been vanquished.

"More!" he yells with clenched fists, as if they weren't firing out of all barrels already. " _More!_ "

Hux observes the spectacle in disapproving silence until his inner pinchfist gets the upper hand. He's been in the order long enough to remember the times when they had to account for every superfluous shot. By now, it's hardwired into his DNA.

"That's enough," he tells Ren who doesn't appear to hear him. How could he, over this ruckus? But then, Ren never ever listens to a single word he says anyhow. So he shouts at his men, "That's enough!"

They're so used to obey him unquestioningly, they follow orders at once. Ren slumps down onto his seat, sweat glistening on his brow, looking mortally scared.

Hux cannot help himself, he has to mock, "Do you think you've got him?"

But not even that piece of open derision gets through to the man; he's stunned into immobility.

"Now, if we're ready to get moving, we can finish this."

"Sir –" the pilot murmurs in that kind of tone that never bodes well. Hux turns and sees – unbelievably! – that Skywalker is still standing exactly where he was before. He even has the audacity to flick his hand at a bit of dust on his shoulder.

Kylo sees him too, and the view at least wakes him from his frozen stupor as red-hot anger shoots through his veins. "Bring me down to him."

Just once, Hux would wish not to be the only adult in the room.

"Keep the door covered and don't advance until I say," Ren adds. In principle, there's nothing that Hux would rather see than effing Kylo Ren being shredded to pieces by his effing uncle, but speaking of things hard-wired into his DNA – he can't ignore a stupid decision without at least offering counsel, however much unwanted it may be. He just _can't_.

"Supreme Leader," he says (gosh, how it sticks in his craw to call the idiot that!), "don't get distracted. Our goal –"

For his pains, Kylo moves his hand and throws the general across the small cockpit, straight into a console.

"Right away, sir," the pilot replies without batting an eye-lid. He, too, would rather know the Supreme Leader _anywhere_ but right behind him.

So Kylo descends onto the surface. One part of him is yearning to face Skywalker and eviscerate him once and for all. All the rest though is more frightened than he has ever felt in his adult life.

That's it though, isn't it? A mere childhood fear, of his mighty uncle, Luke Skywalker, Jedi master. He has personally killed every remaining Jedi in the galaxy – there's nothing different about this one.

He advances until they're merely thirty feet apart, feeling emboldened and more than just a little snarky with that one man who's responsible for this whole unholy mess.

"Did you come back to say you forgive me?" he sneers instead of a greeting. "To save my soul?"

"No."

Kylo would like to say that his former master has become old, but as a matter of fact, he doesn't seem to have aged at all. Maybe that's due to having lived in the first temple. It's done something to his aura, too, which is distant and somewhat hollow, like an echo chamber.

Kylo shrugs off his cloak, draws his sword and takes a fighting stance. Skywalker mirrors these preparations, but leisurely, every gesture demonstrating his utter carelessness, and while his nephew _knows_ he's doing it on purpose in order to make his blood boil and be less cautious, he cannot but react just as Skywalker wills it. He is _livid_ and charges with the pent-up anger of a life-time.

And just like Skywalker doubtlessly planned, Kylo is so beside himself, he utterly misses to hit anything. He halts and swivels around, even more irate than before. This time though, he paces himself, aiming straight for his foe's midriff, and seeing that one turning away like the galaxy's ruling limbo champion, he takes another downward strike of the kind his uncle always chided him for, and which he could never properly counter. He's learnt since then though, because he pivots back to the vertical a split second before Kylo's blade can chop his head off, in an impossibly elegant move that his nephew would much admire under different circumstances.

"I failed you, Ben. I'm sorry."

Kylo thought he'd been at maximum fury before, only to find that he's going off the charts with this pointless remark. _Failed?_ Sorry?! SORRY?!

"I'm sure you are," he spits, out of himself. "The Resistance is dead. The war is over. And when I kill you, I will have killed the last Jedi."

"Amazing. Every word of what you just said was wrong," Skywalker replies, back at his old teaching method. "The Rebellion is reborn today. The war is just beginning. And I will not be the last Jedi."

The casual hint at the girl is the worst jeer yet, and the only one so far that really hurt.

"I'll destroy her. And you. And all of it," he snarls through clenched teeth. Oh _yes_ , he will. That treacherous, faithless, thieving little –

"No." Skywalker switches off his blade. "Strike me down in anger and I'll always be with you. Just like your father."

This allusion is the straw that finally breaks the jamel's back. Fury and vengefulness overcome hesitation and fear and he charges with a war cry that would make Captain Phasma proud. In his stampede, he'd run over a middle-sized tank, his blade hits his aim and slices through his old master like light penetrating through a windowpane. He jerks his head around to see his victory, expecting Skywalker to be split in two just like his other old master only hours ago –

He doesn't trust his eyes at first, which tell him Skywalker's _still_ standing as unconcerned as before. For the first time since seeing him come out of that darned bunker though, Kylo's brains catch up with what's happening.

Fata morgana. Distant, hollow aura. _Impossibly_ elegant move. Windowpane. The signs were all there. He was just too preoccupied to pay them the proper attention.

He pokes the apparition – for that's all it is, a goddamned Force apparition! – with his blade to prove his point beyond all doubt.

"No."

No, it can't be! It _mustn't_ be! This isn't fair! He _had_ him! He beat him fair and square! He _won_ , damn it!

Laconic as ever, Skywalker growls, "See you around, kid," and vanishes into thin air.

 _NO!_

x X x

 **6\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 11/07/20 GST**

 _Sometimes I really think people ought to have to pass a proper exam before they're allowed to be parents. Not just the practical, I mean._

Susan Sto Helit _– Thief of Time_

Jakku was a remote desert planet within the Western Reaches of the galaxy's Inner Rim considered by most people to be at the back of beyond, populated by perhaps twenty thousand people altogether (and that's taking even the half-sentient species into account). Few people ever came here and even fewer stayed in these inhospitable surroundings; those that did had usually run away from somewhere.

Jorn and the nameless young woman whom he had come to call 'love' had come here roughly a year ago to eke out a meagre living as scavengers because not even bounty hunters on the prowl for runaway slaves considered it worthwhile to search here. But while it was better than what they had left behind, their existence here scarcely deserved the name 'life' – it was sheer misery. Work was hard (much harder than either of them had ever been used to), food was rare, booze even rarer, the inhuman heat stifling, and the lively toddler a challenge to their resources in every thinkable way.

She was always hungry. They all were, but you couldn't really explain to a two-year-old why they didn't have anything more to eat, could you? She just didn't _get_ it, and simply looked at you with her big round eyes, supplication and accusation personified. It shattered her mother's nerve, all the more when she had just traded her food rations for a bottle of Kyrf.

"Get off my case, midget," she gnarled at the girl, whom they hadn't yet got round to give a proper name to. Her mother had never had a real name of her own and therefore thought the choice more momentous than it possibly was; there were just too many options to choose from, none ever seemed quite right – she'd always liked 'Gale' and 'Honoria', but the one reminded her of a fellow slave and the other of a former mistress; 'Yavin' seemed too grand, 'Enn' too inconsequential, and 'Desree' like a bad omen. So the child went by whatever seemed right at the time: kiddo, pretty, doe, dwarf, moof, girlie, shorty, babe, sarlacc, bomat, frosch, or more consistently, 'my little ray of sunshine', as Jorn would call her.

He was so enamoured of the kid, it got on the young woman's nerves. Always taking her side, always fussing about her, always putting her first. Like now.

"I don't _believe_ this," he ranted, barely through the door and casting a stern look at the bottle in her hands. "You haven't even fed her, but you're drunk already."

"What _I_ do with _my_ rations is none of _your_ business."

"She's hungry!"

"She always is. And I _need_ a drink."

Yes, she did need it indeed. And not just because she had gotten so used to it that her hands began shaking when she didn't get it. Turned out that no matter how far away you ran from the chains, you always brought them with you, around your feet holding you back, around your throat strangling you. At night she couldn't sleep if she wasn't sloshed, haunted by the images and memories and ideas. Whenever she looked at her little girl, she suddenly had to think of the others, two boys, one girl if she wasn't mistaken, which she easily could be; they'd taken them away in the second they had been born. What had become of them? Well, the answer to that was easy enough. They had become slaves, too, like their mother. Where they might be was more difficult to guess. Lucazec was primarily a mining world, children were of no use there; she had come there by coincidence because she had been a pretty girl and those were always wanted anywhere as house servants, or worse. Usually, child slaves were sold to agrarian or industrial planets where their short height and small fingers were needed to crawl into engines, to polish the insides of barrels, to pick tubers or berries, or harvest gherkins. This was the best-case scenario for her other children and she clang to it like a religion.

"What you _need_ is a sound thrashing, my girl," Jorn grunted.

"Sure. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Just like the old times?"

"Shut up."

"Come on, admit it. Taking a helpless little slave under your wing makes you feel good. _Generous_. Does it also help to vanquish your guilty conscience?"

"I said _shut up_."

"How many did _you_ kill before leaving?"

"Shut up!"

"And how many did you rape?"

"I've never raped anyone, and I've never killed no one either, but I'll gladly make an exception and strangle you if you don't shut up!"

"Right, Jorn, let it out! Allow the old slaver to show his ugly mug!"

Their daughter had crawled under the bed and covered her ears with her hands, but she could still hear them screaming.

x X x

 **7\. aboard the _Eclipse_ , Unknown Regions, ABY 11/05/15 GST**

 _Leader of the lost, ruler of the ruins. I am a man, like any other man. I believe in survival. I believe in fascism. Oh yes, I am a fascist. What of it? Fascism…a word. A word whose meaning has been lost in the bleatings of the weak and the treacherous. The Romans invented fascism. A bundle of bound twigs was its symbol. One twig could be broken. A bundle would prevail. Fascism…strength in unity. I believe in strength. I believe in unity. And if that strength, that unity of purpose, demands a uniformity of thought, word and deed then so be it. I will not hear talk of freedom. I will not hear talk of individual liberty. They are luxuries. I do not believe in luxuries. The war put paid to luxury. The war put paid to freedom. The only freedom left to my people is the freedom to starve. The freedom to die, the freedom to live in a world of chaos. Should I allow them that freedom? I think not. I think not. Do I deserve for myself the freedom I deny to others? I do not. I sit here within my cage and I am but a servant._

Adam Sutler _– V for Vendetta_

The General had returned to his ship in the best of spirits. As a matter of fact, his son could not remember to have ever seen him in such a good mood. He'd met with some admiral, and while there hadn't been a time in the boy's short life in which he hadn't known that an admiral outranked a general, The General had thought very little of this particular admiral before that meeting. 'Jumped-up alien scum' had been one of his assessments, 'goddamned sorcerer' another.

 _Now_ though, he called the same man a 'genius' and 'the sparkle of hope I'd almost given up hoping for'. The boy knew better than to point out that inconsistency, and so did The General's adjutants. His rages were as easily incited as they were brutal. He had once shot a soldier for giving a wrong answer.

All the same, The General was the man who had managed to bring about their continued survival; more, he had untiringly gathered the far-flung loyalists in the Unknown Regions, organised them and given them a new purpose. In his parlance, the Empire hadn't been 'vanquished', it had merely suffered some 'painful losses', but it would 'rally again' and 'wipe those rebel bastards off the face of the galaxy'.

Alas, the Empire might not have been vanquished, as The General claimed, but at this point in time – seven years after the death of the Galactic Emperor, six years after the devastating Battle of Jakku – it was down to its bare bones (and not the bones of a Rancor, but rather a Fwit). They had seven star destroyers, two mega-destroyers and another two badly-aged dreadnoughts. These were crewed by the bare minimum of soldiers and officers, which might account for the fact that The General had put his eleven-year-old son in charge of training the new recruits. It wasn't easy to get those (but then, nothing was ever easy in the Unknown Regions), so the main influx came from a couple of worlds that couldn't even be called 'backwater'. In Armitage's mind, those planets, peopled by descendants of unlucky stranded travellers of the distant past, were still stuck in the Pleistocene, and that sneer wasn't far off the mark.

Their ages varied between mere toddlers and youths under twenty. Anything older and you couldn't train them properly any longer, because they'd be far over their physical peak before even understanding what they were supposed to do. Because half of them didn't speak Basic, those who did usually weren't intelligible either. As a consequence, Armitage and his protocol droids at first drilled into them the means of communication. As soon as being certain that they'd get the gist, they began a strict regime of indoctrination, complemented by some light training of hand-to-hand combat and simulation. You couldn't trust them with real weaponry before being absolutely sure that they wouldn't turn their blasters against their superiors (there had been a number of deplorable incidents leading to this safety measure).

It was this department to which The General had turned straight after coming back from meeting the mysterious admiral. Armitage didn't deceive himself that his father just wished to see him after an absence of a week, and was proven right. Instead, Brendol had a list of brand-new 'suggestions' (translate: strict orders).

Number One: They wouldn't take any new recruits older than six. Anything older was a waste of time and resources.

Number Two: In addition to the lessons at day, they ought to continue teaching the children during their sleep.

"I am not sure I understand, sir," Armitage dared to interpose – because he really, really didn't. It was hard enough to make them listen continuously while they were awake.

"Nothing new," The General barked, but rather out of habit. Armitage's ears were fine-tuned to the level of animosity in his father's insults. This was a three, max.

"Have you never heard of subliminal influencing? The power of the subconscious? Neuro-linguistics?" he went on, implying a serious lack of knowledge whereas the boy was reasonably certain that the old man had never heard of these either before his latest journey. Taking copious notes of the following rambles, Armitage thought he comprehend the outline of a cunning idea though, an idea that didn't sound like his father's. The General was resourceful and sly, but subtlety wasn't among his strengths.

"A new order, that's what we need," the old man finished his soliloquy after what had felt like an hour.

"I believe it is called the First Order, sir," one of his adjutants said respectfully. Armitage and the other adjutant drew up their shoulders and waited for the explosion, but The General was too jovial today for an outburst.

"Exactly," he said instead. "The First Order. And why is it called so? Huh, Armitage?"

How should the boy know? He hadn't been present at that meeting. Still, he ventured with a dry mouth, "Because order is of the first importance, sir?"

"It is. It is. Order vanquishes chaos because it is of a higher order." He wagged his fleshy forefinger. "That Admiral Snoke, he's got a fleet of very fine ships, state of the art if you must know. He showed me the plans for… But that's for another day. He's also got sizeable manpower. And not damned aliens, but honest men. Alright, some aliens, but not many. Anyway. If we combine our troops with his and adopt some of his better strategies, we have enough resources to get back into business."

Lying on his cot that night, Armitage wondered about this mysterious admiral. He must be a remarkable creature indeed if he drew such high praise from The General…

He was very cold, but The General prohibited the use of blankets to inure his son against the cold (sometimes, he let him stand naked in two buckets of ice water for hours on end for this purpose). The General wanted to inure his son against a lot of things. Hunger, thirst, pain. And his preferred method was deprivation. He regarded his illegitimate offspring as 'too soft', but alas, it was his only, so he had to make do with what he had been given.

Armitage would never have questioned his father's wisdom in these matters; he had never known anything else, and until he had overheard two older officers calling his education 'barbaric', he wouldn't have thought there was any other option really. Surely, The General must be right though, 'what doesn't kill you makes you harder'. It stood to reason, didn't it?

x X x

 **8\. on the planet Crait, ABY 30/05/11, 03:41 GST**

 _You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me without a place to rest, but I have more.  
My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side._

Dracula _– Dracula_

To claim his mind was in a collected state would be a barefaced lie, yet even so Kylo can recall enough of what his mother once mentioned about that long-abandoned secret rebel base to give Hux a useful hint or two about what is awaiting them down there while they make their way over to the _Finalizer_ in Kylo's TIE-fighter.

"Impenetrable, uh?" Hux asks, cocking a brow.

"That's what she said. Apparently it's got a door you can bomb for days without budging."

"Oh well, that was _then_. We've got lots of new stuff to spoke that particular wheel."

"We have?"

"Damn it, Ren, I keep telling you to familiarise yourself with our armament!"

"You're doing it again, General."

"What?"

"I'd throttle you to help the message sink in, but I'm afraid you've got to wait until I've landed this thing."

"Excuse me, Supreme Leader. I shall bear your new position in mind."

"You will, I'm sure of it."

Less than an hour later, they're back in space, with the entirety of the _Finalizer's_ ground troops in tow. Or rather, all the troops still functioning, because even though the _Finalizer_ was lucky and escaped from most of the fall-out of the initial explosions on the _Supremacy_ , she's lost a whole hangar, too. Other destroyers weren't so blessed.

Hux keeps on reading out loud all the status reports he receives, it's a litany of destruction and the man seems deeply affected.

"For heaven's sake, pull yourself together," Kylo grouses. "It's only _stuff_. Bent metal."

"It's not ' _just stuff_ '! This was the finest fleet the galaxy's ever seen!" Hux defends himself heatedly.

"Yes, and most of it is still intact, and with the exception of the _Supremacy_ , most of the crews managed to evacuate. Once we're through with the Resistance, we won't need such a large fleet any longer anyway."

Hux stares at him in pure loathing. Kylo feels almost sorry for him; he knows the general spent most of his life building this fleet. Then again, this is _Hux_.

"And how do you propose to keep control of three million star systems, Supreme Leader?"

"By showing them that it is worth it."

"Oh, yes? And may I inquire how exactly you plan to do so? Sir?"

"By bringing back order, stability and justice, of course. Or what else is this all about?"

It's an enormous pleasure to see the general stumped for words. And soon, he'll add to that pleasure by seeing the end of the Resistance. In the distance he can see the mountain range containing the old mine in which they have taken refuge.

"Couldn't you have landed any further off-site? I mean, I can still see the peaks without quadnocs," he comments and receives a lecture in turn about security, proper protocol for making planetfall, and the fact that they don't know for sure what kind of weapons their enemies possess. It'd be enough to silence his mockery, if not in this very moment, a dozen gliders slipped out and headed towards them, accompanied by blasts from stationed canons that fail to even reach the First Order impedimenta. _Gliders?!_ Seriously?!

"Thirteen incoming light craft. Shall we hold until we clear them?" Hux asks, and while he still cannot remember to address Kylo as 'Supreme Leader', his tone if deferential enough not to make a fuss.

"No. The Resistance is in that mine. Push through."

It's an unfair fight. A squadron of twelve TIE-fighters rises and makes piecemeal of most of the tiny vehicles as well as the stationary canons. With every explosion, more of the strange dust covering the plains whirls up; the air is dense with red clouds, when suddenly one of the officers reports, "We're under fire. One incoming vessel. Freighter –"

He needn't say more (though of course he does) for Kylo to know exactly which freighter is picking off their fighters one by one.

"Blast that piece of junk out of the sky!"

The pilots follow orders to a tee and off they go, following the apparently fleeing _Falcon_. No doubt that is exactly what – who is flying that thing? Chewie? Yeah, probably – Chewie intended, while the remaining gliders continue to come towards them. It is beyond Kylo what they think they can do with those playthings against a dozen AT-ATs and the mother of all cannons. Hux explained to him what that massive cannon is, something involving the words 'Death Star technology', which is probably supposed to mean it is powered by kyber crystals, but truth to tell, Kylo was kind of distracted and didn't really listen.

Eventually, they see sense and all but one glider abort the attack. That one flies straight on, losing bits and parts in the intense heat of the cannon warming up when suddenly it is rammed out of the way by a second glider coming from the sideline. Another second or two and it would have burst into flames. And then the cannon is ready at last. Hux makes a big deal out of the order to fire it and Kylo is on the verge of mocking him relentlessly for it when he sees the shot's impact. He's commanded dozens and dozens of attacks and airstrikes, but he's never seen up close what immeasurable power those weapons wield. It's like opening a tin of soup using a lightsabre. It's utterly out of proportion.

So, then. This is it.

"General Hux, advance. No quarters. No prisoners."

x X x

 **9\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 12/04/31 GST**

 _Come back if you want to  
And remember who you are  
'Cause there's nothing here for you my dear  
And everything must pass _

Steven Wilson _– Ancestral_

In spite of the heat, the young woman was wearing every piece of clothing she owned at once and stuffed the pockets with the rest of her meagre possessions as well as every drop of booze she could find. This gave her usually so slight frame the shape of a boil-ridden Nuna.

"Mommy, you are cold?" her little daughter asked and peeled off her own small tunic to offer to her mother.

She pushed back the girl's proffered gift with a sad smile. "It's alright. Now, listen. Mommy needs to go away for a while. You needn't worry. I'll come back for you, sweetheart."

"Where you go?"

"I… I don't know yet."

"When you come back?"

"I can't say. Stick with Jorn, he'll see you right." Even though it was only three in the afternoon, she put the girl to bed and gave her a kiss. "You gotta be a big girl now. Stay away from Hutts and Ripper-raptors. And men. They're dangerous."

She swiftly walked out without another look, or she would have seen the girl scramble out of her cot immediately (knowing her daughter, she could have known so much, and maybe she did). Instinctively, the child walked towards the centre of the village, until she saw the large spaceship on the fringes, and turning, spotted her mother in the company of a tall, broad-shouldered man on the ramp. The girl pivoted and started running, but she had no chance. The ramp was hauled in and the door closed, she had another hundred yards to go when the ship started and she started, too, screaming.

"No! Come back! COME BACK!"

From somewhere, a withholding hand grabbed her, some man pulled her back. "Careful, honey, the blowback," he said.

The girl bit into his hand. _Hard_. "Come back! Mummy! _Come back!_ "

x X x

 **10\. on the planet Taris, ABY 13/03/08 GST**

 _Though marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves 'em still two fools._

William Congreve – _The Double Dealer_

He thought he could have handled the nagging wife of cliché. But Leia didn't nag. Instead, she was _not impressed_ , which was so much worse. Han had never considered himself the marrying kind, whereas with Leia, he had proposed twenty-four hours after their second proper kiss, because – well, no man could simply fool around with the like of Princess Leia Organa, could he? She didn't suffer fools, or fooling, yet she had married one, and was too stubborn to admit her error in judgment. She constantly informed him without speaking a word that she _knew_ he obstinately refused to be a better man than he was, just blankly looking at him, or raising a brow, sometimes by a mere resigned smile or nod. _She didn't even shake her head at him._

She'd surely make an exception today though. He had managed to gamble away a year's worth of rent (and not for the first time either) on a failsafe insider tip that had gloriously won the race only to be ingloriously disqualified twenty-minutes later for testing positive on a dozen substances banned on every civilised planet and half of the uncivilised ones, too. Under different circumstances, Han would have argued the validity of the whole thing rather than face his wife, but as bad luck had it, the man behind the scam had turned out to be Marvid Qreph, a crime lord famous for not only killing anyone who crossed him (Han was quite accustomed to people wanting to kill him) but more importantly, also murdering their entire family. Consequently, not honouring the debt was not an option. Owning up to Leia, on the other hand, wasn't either, if he didn't want their marriage to end this very night.

So he had rushed back to their apartment, aware that she was attending a Senate session that would last at least until the evening, to pick up some stuff. As soon as hearing the front door closing shut, Ben had rushed in to greet his father, who only then remembered that he had (somewhat grandiosely, reckoning with his sure win) promised the kid to take him out to do whatever he wanted.

"But you promised," Ben answered quietly, once Han had told him that they weren't going anywhere this afternoon. If only he had cried, or been angry! Han thought he would much rather have dealt with one of his son's occasional tantrums right now, which would have made it so much easier to justify leaving him behind. But Ben just gazed up at him with an awfully knowing look in his eyes (which he must have learnt from his mother, damn it!).

"I know, don't you think I didn't know that," Han grumbled, quickly and indiscriminately grabbing a few clothes and throwing them into a holdall. "We'll just do it another time."

"When will you be back?"

"Who says I'm leaving?" Han snapped back, feeling like an idiot in the second he said it.

The child looked at the holdall. "Aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, I am. Urgent matter – just come up…"

"You're lying," the boy said matter-of-factly with another of those disconcerting looks that spooked his father so much.

To be accused of dishonesty by one's seven-year-old was unacceptable, all the more if it was true. Han pointed at him. "Watch your mouth, Ben Solo, or else!"

"Does Ama know?"

He really knew to put his finger on where it hurt, didn't he!

"No, because as I just said, it just came up – and if you say I was lying once more, you'll get a clip around the ear, my dear boy, so watch it."

"What shall I tell her?"

"You're not supposed to tell her anything," Han barked, then reconsidered. "Or – tell her… Tell her that iridian necklace I gave her – tell her I said she looks even more beautiful with it than she is anyhow."

Ben smiled. "So she'll become angry and sell it?"

"Kid, sometimes you're really creeping me out," Han sighed and truly meant it. A child that age shouldn't be that perceptive, or wise. He zipped up the holdall and knelt down. "Now listen to me. While I'm gone, you're in charge, okay? You're the man about the house –"

The boy returned his father's gaze sadly, indulgently, as if their places were reversed, as if he was the parent humouring the child's pathetic lie. Han would never understand how he had managed to father a child more grown-up than he was.

"Come here," he mumbled and hugged him tightly. "Don't cry. Be good. Take care of your Ama."

"Don't go, Ada, please don't go," Ben whispered against his shoulder, returning the embrace with every ounce of strength he possessed, as if he could keep his father there if only he held on fast enough.

x X x

 **11\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/11, 02:30 GST**

 _We stand now at the turning point between two eras. Behind us is a past to which we can never return…_

Arthur C. Clarke _– Exploration of Space_

Kylo Ren has a sixth sense for waking up split seconds before people are about to murder him in his sleep. He does so now, fully expecting to see the girl Rey ready to strike – and both relieved and disappointed to find it is only Hux.

He needs another second or two to get his bearings and recollect what happened – one gaze is enough to confirm Snoke is really dead, another sweeping gaze around shows that his grandfather's lightsabre is gone just like the girl. Hux seems close to tears goggling at the scene in all-encompassing disbelief.

"What _happened_?" he asks in barely controlled voice.

Even if Kylo had any intention of telling him, he wouldn't even know where to start.

"The girl murdered Snoke," he retorts, surprised how easy this lie passes his lips. "Where is she? What happened?"

"She took Snoke's escape pod."

Behind the panoramic windows, the planet Crait is glistening white in the distance. Of course. _Crait_. The old rebel base his mother had once told him about. What had she said? Something about an impenetrable fortress… The last of the Resistance are going to entrench themselves on Crait, and _she_ is going to join her rotten friends there…

"We know where she's going. Get all of our forces down to that Resistance base. Let's finish this."

"Finish this?! Who do you think you're talking to? You presume to command _my_ army! Our Supreme Leader is dead! We have no ruler!"

The last shreds of self-control that Kylo barely managed to hang on to desert him. He jerks up his hand and chokes the obnoxious little git by means of the Force.

"The Supreme Leader is dead!"

Hux drops to his knees and coughs, "Long live the Supreme Leader…"

Kylo lingers for a moment longer, relishing Hux turning purple before letting go.

"Let me reiterate: Summon our forces and let us finish this once and for all."

"Yes, yes…"

For the first time, Kylo really looks at the general and takes in the dusty boots, the creased trousers and partially torn tunic – but no matter what happened, he's _still_ perfectly coiffed.

"What's _your_ excuse for looking as if you had crawled through a ventilation shaft?"

Hux's pale face turns dark red once more, this time with annoyance. "We were hit by a MC85 star cruiser at the speed of light, you bloody moron!"

As if to underline the statement, an explosion shakes the ship. The _Supremacy_ is a colossus of a ship; to make her as much as tremble, you ought to bomb her for days.

Still – first things first. He flicks his thumb and hurls the general against the wall. "Is that any manner to address your Supreme Leader, General?"

"Listen, Ren – Supreme Leader Ren – I think you will find we _really_ haven't got the time for that kind of thing right now!"

"How much damage?"

"In a nutshell? She's split in two."

Oh. _Oh._

"Then we had better evacuate."

Hux closes his eyes, bites his tongue and exhales slowly before daring to reply, "Yes, sir. I was just about to suggest exactly that."

Kylo smiles a sarlaccian smile. "And then we will crush the last of the Resistance."

x X x

 **12\. aboard the _Eclipse_ , Parnassos, ABY 13/04/18 GST +**

 _A bad beginning makes a bad ending._

Euripides – _Æolus_

In the hull was a flock of wailing infants crying for their mothers, but Armitage Hux thought little of their plight. In his opinion, losing one's parents wasn't the worst that could happen to a kid. Quite the contrary, in fact.

He had thought he had finally managed to lose his father, who'd gone off to some mission or other and hadn't been heard of for _weeks_ , only to send a distress signal and be rescued. Bad luck. Armitage had prepared such a lovely eulogy, choosing his words with far more meticulousness than one might expect from a thirteen-year-old.

The General's mission had yielded a crop of twenty-one children under the age of six as well as a tall girl of ferocious mien wearing the white armour of a Stormtrooper which was too small for her. Her name was Phasma, the boy had been told, and apparently, she was something of a warrior queen.

"Did you even listen to a single word I said?"

His three-week stint on Parnassos had cost the General thirty pounds, but shorn nothing off his abrasive manners.

"Yes, sir."

"I highly doubt that." The General narrowed his eyes; a little smirk tugged at his lips. "You will instruct Phasma in everything she needs to know. _Everything_."

"Yes, sir."

Armitage cast the young woman a wry look. His father expected him to order around officers five times his age, and the soldiers appeared to acquiesce because they regarded the boy as his father's proxy. Somehow, he doubted that this newcomer would share their deference.

She returned his gaze calmly; a small smile flitted across her face that didn't seem accustomed to smiling. Once you got past her incredible height (she towered almost a foot above Brendol Hux and two or three inches above his tallest soldiers), you saw a quite ordinary person. She was in her late teens or early twenties, with cropped light-blonde hair, steely electric-blue eyes and sallow, unhealthy skin which was probably due to the hellhole she'd been living in.

The transporter took off. Armitage watched her as she threw a last glance on her former homeworld, a planet savaged by a chemical disaster twenty years ago. Her mien was in no way nostalgic though. Instead, her eyes turned harder yet, her mouth became a thin line.

During the next days, Armitage did as he was told (he always did) and introduced Phasma to the workings of the operation that was, by now, called the 'First Order'. She was laser-focused, asking questions that betrayed an instinctive understanding of combat and whose range surpassed the boy's knowledge here and there though she was clearly at pains not to show him up. Within a week, he also witnessed her pronunciation, which had been broad and somewhat slurred, refining to sound more and more like his own (or more likely his father's) clipped Core worlds accent.

And Brendol clearly doted on her. At first, his son believed this to be the natural result of her having rescued him, but it turned out that, while the General's journey had been stressful, the most dangerous obstacle they had encountered was the toxic air on Parnassos, which he had combatted by demanding to use his Stormtroopers' helmets, which didn't effectively filter toxins, but at least mitigated the worst effects. Armitage's second-best bet was to assume that the old man was simply sweet on her. But again, this didn't appear to be the case. The General's approbation for his latest acquisition knew no bounds, but it wasn't lewd.

"Watch that technique," he commended her hand-to-hand combat style as the young woman grappled with a Stormtrooper twice as broad as she during a demonstration. "He's got more power, but not a chance to use it against her. She's much quicker and far more nimble on her feet. What does that tell you, boy?"

"That she's not wearing any armour? Sir?"

The General's face darkened. "Never afraid to state the obvious, are you?"

"Anyone can see she's fitter, faster, overall better than he," Armitage muttered in annoyance. He even omitted to add the obligatory 'sir', and received an answering slap.

"It _should_ tell you that the armour is badly designed, you fool. And that our training leaves much to be desired."

Phasma hurled the other fighter over her shoulder and onto the mattress, then jumped on top of him and grabbed his head as if she was about to break his neck. She let go off him, got up and flexed her hands.

"Another one?" she asked and was obliged.

They kept on watching her and Brendol commented on some detail or other, until, "You know where I found her? A medbay. Believe it or not. By day, she was a doffing paramedic."

"And by night?"

The boy received another slap for that question as well as the stern injunction to take his mind 'out of the gutter', which was unfair because Armitage's thoughts hadn't strayed that way until his father mentioned it. He'd rather presumed that at night she'd been an assassin or something. Whether he'd guessed right he didn't know because the General continued, "The Republic has failed Parnassos, just like it fails them all. Parnassos is just a very eye-catching example. It's bedlam. There are some semblances of civilisation left, but in general it's sheer anarchy. People cut each other's throats over food and fuel."

"But they still have medbays?"

"Rich people do. They also have the means to employ poor people to keep the other poor people away. That was her sideline."

A bodyguard. How fitting. And from what the boy inferred, this was the occupation for which the General intended her, too.

"That's why she's joined us," Brendol went on. Phasma had just flattened another soldier. "She wants revenge for her world and she shall get it. I told her that the First Order will clear up that pigsty. The First Order will fix the havoc that the Republic has wreaked."

There was precious little that Armitage agreed on with his father but this. The First Order _was_ going to bring back order to the galaxy.

Spending as much time with her as he did these days, Armitage found, quite in spite of himself, that he was beginning to like the young woman. She wasn't exactly friendly, but definitely not unfriendly, neither belligerent nor condescending towards the much younger boy, and she didn't suck up to him either just because he was Brendol's son.

He was showing her the work he did with the young cadets, explained about the dietary regulations, the lessons in the different disciplines, the audio recordings playing at night during the children's sleep to deepen the instructions.

"It doesn't matter where they're from or how they came here, now we're their – their –"

"Family?"

He furrowed his brows. 'Family' certainly wasn't the term he'd been looking for, for obvious reasons.

"Yes, well – close enough. And I'm sorry, but the same goes for you as well. Once we're back in charge, we'll look after – Parnassos, was it? – and make sure those responsible are taken to account for what they did. For you though, it's over."

"You bet it is."

"No, I mean, you must forget about it. It's no longer your home. We're your home now."

"Yes."

"It is a problem with some of our older recruits. Do you think you can stop caring?"

She grinned, but there was nothing warm or humorous in her aspect when she replied, "For all I care, you can use that godforsaken rock as target practise for our artillery."

x X x

 **13\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 13/05/04 GST**

 _A man's most open actions have a secret side to them._

Joseph Conrad _– Under Western Eyes_

Whenever they'd argued, the blasted woman had claimed he wasn't really the kid's father and he had stubbornly insisted that he was. The girl's chin, her smile had been his proofs. Lately though, he'd truly started to wonder. Two weeks ago, he had told her to ignite the hearth fire, and as she'd found no lighter, she'd just pointed at the lumps of coal and yelled 'Burn!' – and they'd combusted into flames. He'd have shrugged it off as a nice trick in anyone else, but how was a three-year-old doing it? Never mind – today had easily topped it all.

"Look, Jorn, I can fly," she'd gabbled and when he'd looked over, she had wildly flapped her arms while hovering five inches above the ground. He'd dropped his last bottle of tihaar in shock and given her a sound thrashing in response for both offences, not quite knowing which one he found worse – her making him lose his booze, or her violation of the laws of nature. He'd never raised his hand against her before; hopefully the lesson would stick.

But whether she was his or not didn't make a difference for what was to come, did it? Absent-mindedly, he stroked over his head, which was perfectly bald already. He'd lately seen his own reflection in a bucket of water and noticed he'd lost most of his eyebrows as well, and if he'd still any doubts left, one glance at his hands, emaciated, varicose as they were, his skin covered in hives, would have sufficed to inform him of what was to come next. He'd seen it all before countless times, back home in the mines. None of the slaves had ever seen their fifth year down there. The guards had been slightly better off in their flimsy protective jumpsuits and masks, but even they never celebrated their tenth anniversary. After coughing up phlegm, you coughed up blood, and after that, pieces of your lungs. Between the first cough and the last came less than three months. Jorn had ignored the phlegm, but yesterday, he'd spit out the first blood. He wasn't going to wait for the rest.

He had given her an engine to dismantle, that ought to keep her busy for some hours while he sneaked out and over to Unkar Plutt's shack. Upon entering, he was as always momentarily overwhelmed by the stink, and had to swallow a couple of times to vanquish his sickness, then put on his slyest smirk. It sat uneasily on his face which wasn't made for smirking.

"No subs," Plutt barked, foreseeably.

"I don't need no sub, pal," Jorn snarled, trying to sound cool and casual. "I'm here to offer you a deal."

The Crolute just cast him a sneer.

"Look, I've had an idea. That girl of mine, she's a wizard with all kinds of engines, you know. It's those small fingers I reckon. Anyway, I don't really have much use for her, so I thought I might just trade her in."

"Sell her, you mean."

Jorn swallowed hard. That's what it came down to, wasn't it? He was here to sell his little girl into slavery. Still, and he didn't even mind that no one in the galaxy would believe him, he was doing it for her own good. He was going to die, and soon. He had nobody who'd take care of the child. But if he sold her to Plutt, the old Blobfish was going to look after his investment; the more he'd have to pay for her, the more he would care. She'd get enough food, and water, and even a roof over her head, which was a thousand times better than anything Jorn could have left her with after his demise.

"Call it what you will."

"I give you five rations for her."

Jorn scoffed, and this time it wasn't an act. "Five rations, are you kidding me? That pilot who came through here last week offered me 400 Credits in cash, and we hadn't even begun bartering."

Jorn knew that Plutt knew why he hadn't as much as contemplated this particular bid and instead head-butted the pilot in question and promised to work over his private parts with a cutting torch.

"Should have taken him up on his offer, then, because I'll give you no more than five rations. Three if you keep on annoying me."

Jorn shrugged ostentatiously. "Too bad."

He lurched over to the tavern next door and ordered a small tuber liquor, the only thing he could afford (Naktene, the barman, had as little faith in running tabs as Unkar Plutt had in handing out subs). He drank it in miniscule sips and willed himself to wait. He was down to the last drops and Naktene had ranted at him to leave three or four times already, when his patience finally seemed to pay off. He pretended not to notice one of Plutt's useless goons coming in and made a show of surprise when Prooker tapped him on the shoulder.

"Boss wants to see you," he grunted.

"Does he? Well, tell him I'm kinda busy right now," Jorn said. Naktene raised all of his four eyebrows, but luckily remained silent. "I'll look in later."

"You better not let the bossman wait, junkrat, if you know what's good for you," Prooker said dispassionately.

This time around, Plutt offered fifty rations straight away. Jorn demanded 200 Credits and a ticket to Cantila. The Crolute countered with eighty rations. Jorn knew he had him; eventually they agreed on a hundred rations and three bottles of Namana. Equipped with this little fortune he returned to the tavern and heaped the food bags onto the bar.

"These are one hundred rations," he informed the marvelling Oloy. "I know you don't run tabs, but maybe you'll fancy this one. I'll give all of them to you now, and in return you give my kid as much water as she wants whenever she comes in."

Naktene closely observed him out of every of his four eyes. "Water for the girl," he gnarled, "nothing else."

"She's three, what else do you think she wants?"

"If she takes after her mam –"

"She doesn't."

Jorn hid the bottles in the back of his ancient glider and flew home. The kid had almost finished with the engine. Her fingers, her tunic, even her face were oil-stained, and she grinned broadly upon his entrance.

"Look, Jorn!"

"That's great, my little litterbug. Now listen. I've heard about a freighter that crashed out there. I'll go and have a look. You'll stay here and finish this, and when you're done, you take it over to Unkar Plutt, do you hear me? He'll give you something to eat for it. I – I may be gone for quite a while. Stay with him until I'm back."

She nodded. She knew the drill.

He lifted her up and buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. "Be good," he whispered, then gave her a big smacking kiss on her forehead before putting her back down.

"Are you crying?" she asked.

"Rubbish," he lied and wiped his eyes. "That's only sweat. Now – what are you?"

"I'm your little ray of sunshine," she babbled merrily.

"That's right. Bye, love."

He walked out as straight-backed as he could and drove off in the glider, out into the infinite desert, out, out, as far as the old junk pot would carry him. Between the dunes, perhaps thirty miles away from Niima Outpost, he made himself comfortable in the sand under the glaring sun. He waited for more than two days until he was utterly parched, then he drunk all three bottles of Namana liquor at once. He relished the euphoric feeling and welcomed death like an old friend.

x X x


	3. Childhood - U-Turn

**II. CHILDHOOD / U-TURN**

 _Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty  
Sound of their breath fades with the light  
I think about the loveless fascination  
Under the Milky Way tonight  
Wish I knew what you were looking for  
Might have known what you would find  
And it's something quite peculiar  
Something shimmering and white  
Leads you here despite your destination  
Under the Milky Way tonight_

The Church – Under the Milky Way

* * *

 **16\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 23:58 GST**

 _Cannot resist her  
Fell for her charm…  
It doesn't work  
Feeling like dirt  
Feeling like you don't care  
I lose myself to her  
Gave her the hours  
Gave her the power  
Cannot erase her  
Gave her the truth  
Gave her the proof  
I gave her everything  
I'm getting feelings I'm hiding too well  
Bury the heart-shaped shell  
(I hide the feelings far too well)  
Something broke inside my stomach  
I let the pieces lie just where they fell  
(I left the pieces where they fell)  
Being with you is hell_

Porcupine Tree _– Open Car_

He's utterly unprepared for her next move, which is summoning her sword – no, _his_ sword! It belonged to _his_ grandfather! – from his unresisting hand. He didn't even notice he was still holding it until it slipped from his grip and has no time to contemplate this thoroughly unanticipated turn of events while trying to regain it with all his might. Because each and every of his assessments of her growing powers has been accurate. Only two weeks ago, there was exactly one person in all the galaxy who could have beaten him at this game – and _he_ is lying dead just two metres behind them – now this girl who didn't know what the Force _was_ seven days ago balances out his power, compels him to draw on his last reserves not to succumb to her pull! He would admire her talent if he wasn't engaged otherwise, though to tell the truth, before complimenting her on her skills, there are a whole bunch of other things he possibly would want to yell at her first.

What does she think she's doing? And what the hell does she want that damned sword for? Does she want to kill him with it? _Again?!_ That girl can't make up her mind, she really can't, half of the time she tries to kill him, shoot him, strike him down – and the other half she'll tell him it isn't too late?!

Not five minutes ago, he saved her _life_ in case she didn't notice, three minutes ago they fought side by side against the Praetorian Guard, thirty seconds ago he gave her the truth about her parents _and_ the effing galaxy – and now she tries to steal his sword again? In order to kill him, if past experience is anything to go by?

Damn it, she _is_ strong, so strong the casing of the lightsabre is beginning to waver dangerously, and then –

x X x

 **17\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 13/05/20 GST**

 _From one learn all._

Virgil _– Æneid_

"I'm too old for cubs," Unkar Plutt groaned and firmly shut the door. Nevertheless, he could still hear them. Outside, his newest acquisition was playing with the imperial droid he'd always meant to fix. The bloody thing had lost its mind, its lower half and on top had a loose connection, but the human girl seemed well entertained all the same. She babbled and babbled, prodded, screwed, shrieked with delight when its eyes flashed or when it made a sound (a sound? _Sounds_ , a _lot_ of them, not to call them noises, or while we're at it, a doshing rumpus!).

"Hail to the Emperor. Hail to the Emp-Emp-Emp-Emp… Code 102. Ueeee-uuu-ueeee-uuu… Code 16. Self-diagnosis mode…"

Two hours later – Unkar Plutt had forgotten all about them once they had stopped being so bloody loud – he lurched out of his office only to find the droid talking to the child in the poshest Core accents. It had never uttered an entire sentence actually making any sense since Plutt had unwisely purchased it for frigging ten credits, which was eleven credits more than the bloody thing was worth.

"Oy! What did you do with it?" he barked at the girl.

"Fixed him."

"I am K2-LM0. I am an imperial –"

Plutt gave him a thump on the head. "No, you're not."

"Excuse me, but I most certainly –"

"There's no more Empire, Tinman. Now you belong to _me_. Just like your new friend there."

"And who would you be – uh – master?"

"The name's Unkar Plutt and you better remember it or I'll dissemble you."

Gruff as he acted, he was secretly glad. In no time, the droid took over seeing after the girl completely, a service she repaid by crafting a little board with wheels and welding the droid on top, so that by using its arms to push itself forwards, it was mobile again (and Unkar Plutt no longer regarded him as such a terribly bad investment). In turn, it showed her how to read, by which route she even got a proper name after all. The droid had pointed to its arm, on which its manufacturing code was milled and the child had slowly deciphered it: K – 2 – L – M – 0. Then it had pointed at the flight helmet she liked to put on her head when she pretended she was a pilot, and made her decipher that as well: R – H – A – E.

So he was Elmo, and she was Rey? Close enough.

Unkar Plutt told anyone who'd listen that slaves who could read and write were far more valuable than those who couldn't. He was quite careful though not to say it in earshot of the kid. She needn't know her old man had sold her, just like she needn't know her floozy mother had run off with that pilot from Kein-Bu. Best if she forgot them jerks altogether. Because to be quite honest – and Unkar Plutt would have thumped anyone suggesting it – he was the tiniest bit fond of that kid, and proud of her progress.

x X x

 **18\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 23:56 GST**

 _"you will be all the things in the world you've never been  
See all the things in the world you've never seen  
Dream all the things in the world you've never dreamed... "  
But I think I get a bit confused...  
Am I seducing or being seduced?_

The Cure _– The 13th_

The room has started to swim before his eyes from lack of oxygen, the blood is rushing through his ears at ever-increasing pace when he hears her voice over the thundering surge.

"Ben!"

His vision clears for a moment, he sees her throwing her lightsabre into his direction, catches it with dreamlike safety, pushes its button and knows without looking that the blade impaled his assailant's head. The pressure on his windpipe stops instantly, but even that he scarcely registers as he drops the stick, thoroughly mesmerized by her beatific smile that encompasses every feeling pulsating through him like his life's blood in this moment.

He's dizzy, disoriented even; the old pessimist in him makes one last bid and has him check that Snoke is well and truly dead and pick up his grandfather's lightsabre, but when he looks back to her, she has turned away from him and stares through the lens depicting the destruction of the last remainders of the Resistance.

She says something about the fleet, about saving it; he only understands half and shrugs it off. The only real reason he ever cared for the Resistance in any way was his mother, and she is dead. It's all over. More than that. It is _time_ for it to be all over.

"Ben?"

Every time she calls him that, something weird is happening in his stomach. She stares at him with those big round luminous eyes that feel so familiar even if he only just met her, and he scrambles through his brains, eager to get it right. "It's time to let old things die. Snoke, Skywalker…" he begins, trying to put the turmoil of ideas crashing in on him all at once and already guessing this isn't going to be one of the galaxy's grand speeches, but trying anyway. "The Sith, the Jedi, the rebels – let it all die…"

He can read in her face he's not getting through to her, so he stretches out his hand. "Rey, I want you to join me. We can rule together and bring a new order to the galaxy…"

Instead of ecstatic though, she looks stricken and shakes her head. "Don't do this, Ben. Please don't go this way."

She doesn't _understand_ , why won't she _understand?!_ She's been in his head, she _must_ understand him!

"No, you're still holding on! _Let go!_ " He notices his voice has risen to a screaming pitch and swallows. Then he goes on, calmer, trying to regain that implicit understanding between them. "Do you want to know the truth about your parents? Or have you always known? And just hidden it away? You know the truth. Say it. _Say it._ "

"They were nobody," she says, tears running down her cheeks. He feels sorry for her; he of all people knows how hard it is to let go, but she has to get it out in order to get over them. The hurt they have caused her has festered in her far too long already.

"They were filthy junk traders who sold you off for drinking money. They're dead in a pauper's grave in the Jakku desert. You have no place in their story. You come from nothing, you're nothing," he says with deliberate cruelty. Like ripping off a band-aid. It only gets worse, the more gently you try. The heart-breaking hurt in her eyes is unbearable and he swallows hard. "But not to me."

He reaches out once more. "Join me."

Feeling her hesitation, he takes another step towards her, desperate for her to take his hand, and entreats her from the bottom of his heart, " _Please_ …"

Oh, the relief when she raises her hand, when she moves towards him, the joyousness when that look of sadness on her face is slowly replaced by resolution! It leaves him utterly unprepared for her next move.

x X x

 **19\. somewhere in the Unknown Regions, ABY 13/11/17 GST**

 _He liked to observe emotions; they were like red lanterns strung along the dark unknown of another's personality, marking vulnerable points._

Ayn Rand _– Atlas Shrugged_

Shah-tezh is a game for two players, but many masters play it by themselves, against themselves. The man that had commonly become known as 'Snoke' (because his real name was unpronounceable for tongues used to Basic Galactic) had long passed that stage. He played _all_ the pieces to win.

He had been eighty-nine when an itinerant peddler had introduced him to the game, back on the dying planet on which he had been born. And even though he had read every move his opponent had made in the man's mind long before he had made it, he had been exhilarated. Games hadn't been a feature of that world, peopled by ancient sages resigned to the fact that their lives were doomed because their world was slowly sucked towards a black hole and had been perishing for eons already. Well, Snoke hadn't resigned himself to that fate; he had been young still, and never tired in finding a way offworld until he had made it. The only thing he had taken with him was his game board. He had been two hundred and ten then and never been beaten, even if his opponents were as capable of reading his mind as vice versa.

That had been in what people called 'the Unknown Regions', so far away that even the most modern ships today would take a decade or more to get there. It had taken him three hundred years until arriving on a planet close enough to 'the galaxy' to at least have heard of it, but then, he hadn't travelled straight without interruptions.

And all the time, no matter what else he had done and learnt, he had kept on refining his gamesmanship. He had been playing one particular game in his head for years now, using far more than the usual hundred pieces and manipulating them over millions of parsecs. Dowagers, kings, knights or soulworms, in the end they were all mere pawns.

At present, he was focusing on two different sets on his imaginary board that was the galaxy, both involving a knight which would serve to take out their respective king. One was fairly straight forward. The child in question was ripe for picking, but the king hadn't entirely fulfilled his purpose yet. The other was more difficult and far more interesting. The knight in question was still a child, too, a child of infinite promise and threefold purpose. First of all, the knight had served to move the dowager, she in turn had handled the king, or in more plain terms: he had stoked the darkness in this extraordinary child and thereby coerced the boy's mother to entrust her son to her brother, Luke Skywalker, who had seized the chance and founded a new Jedi Order. Lesser players more timid than Snoke might consider this daring move too risky and fail to realise the obvious: let Skywalker do the work and assemble all promising young Force-users in one place, then destroy them all in one fell strike. It wasn't elegant, admittedly, but it saved much time, and time was the only commodity that Snoke hadn't too much of. He was, even for one of his own race, an old man. He might have another thirty years, certainly no more, possibly less, to finish this game and win the immortality that only gold and marble could grant.

x X x

 **20\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 23:40 GST**

 _You promised me...  
I trusted you  
I wanted your words  
Believed in you  
I needed your words  
So I swallowed the shame and I waited  
I buried the blame and I waited  
Choked back years of memories...  
I pushed down the pain and I waited  
Trying to forget...  
You promised me another wish  
Another way  
You promised me another dream  
Another day  
You promised me another time  
You promised me...  
Another lie  
Oh you promised me...  
You promised me... You promised me...  
And I waited... And I waited... And I waited...  
And I'm still waiting..._

The Cure _– The Promise_

Kylo has the span of three or four heartbeats to compose himself and compose his mind – impossible as it seems, because that elevator ride has shaken him to the core – as the door opens and the eerie red light of the throne room washes over him like a wave. He focuses on nothing but the Force, which informs him that the gigantic hall is empty except for Snoke and his Praetorian Guard. The mysterious alien navigators aren't there; perhaps they have fulfilled their purpose of finding their way through Outer Space and were disposed.

He steps out of the elevator, gently steering Rey with a hand in the small of her back; the touch gives him a jolt like strong electricity.

Snoke doesn't bother to hide his triumph. For his own standards, he seems genuinely pleased. "Young Rey, welcome," he rasps oilily.

Having delivered his charge, Kylo goes down on one knee like a good servant and lowers his gaze. _She's here_ is the only thought he permits himself; it's a safe one because it is as undeniably true as it is neutral.

"Come closer, child," Snoke coos, but, foreseeable, she doesn't move an inch. "So much strength. Darkness rises and light to meet it. I warned my young apprentice that as he grew stronger, his equal in the light would rise."

Then he uses the Force to summon the girl's lightsabre – _Darth Vader's_ lightsabre, Kylo corrects himself and clings to the notion lest he should think any further and come to 'Anakin Skywalker's lightsabre', or worse yet, ' _my_ lightsabre' – which Kylo was still holding in his hand, to him. He has no respect for the weapon though, Kylo knows, he just wants it to underline his victory, parade it like a cheap prop.

"Skywalker, I assumed. Wrongly." Carelessly he puts down the sword on the arm of his chair, demands her once more to step closer, and when she doesn't obey, uses the Force to pull her towards him.

Kylo can feel her trying to resist, but of course she's no match for Snoke's powers. That doesn't keep her though from snarling, "You underestimate Skywalker and Ben Solo and me." Once again Kylo has to gather himself not to tremble upon hearing his name. "It will be your downfall."

But all his willpower was spent in vain because clearly, Snoke has seen right through him regardless. Now he retorts with hammy sarcasm, "Oh! Have you seen something? A weakness... In my apprentice... Is that why you came?"

Kylo's heart sinks a notch further yet, hearing his master's spiteful chortle.

"Young fool. It was _I_ who bridged your minds. I stoked Ren's conflicted soul. I knew he was not strong enough to hide it from you – and you were not wise enough to resist the bait."

Kylo involuntarily looks up, surprised and even more affronted. Pieces on a dejarik board?! Not even that, a mere worm on an angler's hook!

Luckily, Snoke is too busy with the poor girl to pay him much attention. He has moved her closer until their faces are merely inches apart, cradling her cheek with his claw. Kylo can't endure to watch, so he doesn't and resolutely stares at the floor again.

"Now, you will give me Skywalker, then I will kill you with the cruellest stroke."

"No."

Kylo is impressed how restrained her voice is; he knows she's scared, but she doesn't let it show. He's trained hard for years to keep himself under control, and often enough slips. He knows how hard it is.

"Yes."

Snoke hurls her into the air like a toy where she hangs suspended, defenceless against the torment that comes next.

"Give me everything!"

"No. No!"

Her pain is palpable as her control deserts her, she screams; it wouldn't take Kylo's talent with the Force or their connection for him to feel exactly how much agony the girl goes through. This is worse than anything he has ever seen, even though he only gets to sense it second hand.

"NO!"

The torture has an unexpected side-effect though. Until this very moment, Kylo was in a turmoil he found hard to suppress. Now a great calm takes hold of him.

This is going to be the end, no matter which way.

Clearly having obtained what he wanted, Snoke relinquishes his grip on her and she falls to the floor. Kylo fully expects her to be unconscious; the victims of serious mind probes usually are, but she lies there like a broken doll for only a second or two before she scrambles back up.

Snoke seems to find this all terribly funny. "Well, well," he giggles. "I did not expect Skywalker to be so wise. We will give him and the Jedi Order the death he desires. After the rebels are gone, we will go to his planet and obliterate the entire island."

And after everything she's just suffered, Rey still doesn't give up! She stretches out her hand and summons the lightsabre from the armrest; it's a feeble attempt, but given the state she's in, absolutely admirable. Of course, it doesn't work, it hits her over the head and flies back to lie on Snoke's armrest, but the effort is still commendably brave.

Even Snoke seems to think so. "Such spunk! Look here now."

With a lazy move of his hand, he draws back one of the red curtains and reveals the panoramic window with its magnifying lens that displays the bombing of dozens of little ships. Resistance escape transports, Kylo realises faintly. Under different circumstances, he might have taken an interest in that sight, perhaps even pleasure, but not now, seeing as he does how the poor girl is dragged over to witness the destruction up close.

"The entire Resistance on those transports – soon they will all be gone," Snoke crows in a sing-song voice. "For you, all is lost."

This time, it is Kylo's own sword that she summons from its halter to run another attack, which Snoke parries as lazily as before while indicating his guards to stand back.

"Hold still that fiery spit of hope. You have the spirt of a true Jedi."

He tosses her through the air and she crashes down on the floor only some feet in front of Kylo, his lightsabre lands even closer and spins round until the handle points towards him.

Ah, yes. This is it. The end. Or rather – the means to an end. He knows his sword didn't land there by accident, he knows what Snoke expects him to do. The cruellest stroke, indeed!

"And because of that you must die."

 _Precisely_ , Kylo thinks, gives his master a swift look and returns to stare at his sword on the floor.

Using the Force, Snoke forces the girl up onto her knees and turns her around until she faces Kylo while addressing him solemnly, "My worthy apprentice, son of darkness, heir apparent to Lord Vader, where there was conflict I now sense resolve, where there was weakness, strength. Complete your training and fulfil your destiny!"

"I know what I have to do," Kylo quietly murmurs and picks up his weapon with all the caution and reverence of a sacred ritual. He looks at the girl blankly, shocked by the expression in her eyes.

She makes a last desperate attempt; her voice quavers, "Ben…"

'I _will_ finish this,' he thinks and puts all his mind into this resolution. Nothing else matters. It is time.

"You think you can turn him. Pathetic child! I cannot be betrayed. I cannot be beaten. I see his mind, I see his every intent. _Yes_. I see him turning the lightsabre to strike true."

Oh yes, he does. He raises his right arm and puts his left behind his back in the proper ceremonial stance. The lightsabre – _his_ lightsabre – must be aligned with care and precision. He must not make a mess of this completion of his training. The descendant of Darth Vader must finish what he started. Snoke was right after all, he has finally found his resolve, his strength.

"And now, foolish child, he ignites it and kills his true enemy!"

Kylo flicks his fingers and ignites his lightsabre. _His_ lightsabre, the lightsabre of his grandfather when he was still Anakin Skywalker! It stabs Snoke, who has just time enough to look outraged, then another little flick makes the blade of pure light cut right through the old monster and fly through the air, where Rey, released from his hold in the moment of his death, catches it with some aplomb.

The way she looks at him in this split second while the Praetorian Guard ready themselves to avenge their fallen master! If he dies in the inevitably following melee, it will be worth it for that one look alone.

x X x

 **21\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 16/08/28 GST +**

 _Dreams are composed of many things ... of images and hopes, of fears and memories. Memories of the past, and memories of the future…_

Dream _– Sandman_

Niima Outpost was the second-largest settlement on Jakku, boasting almost eight hundred inhabitants, two major wells and no less than nine taverns. Visiting desert nomads got easily lost in that sprawling metropolis of a city, but little Rey had grown up here and knew every nook. And even though there was a tavern right next to Unkar Plutt's warehouse, with a barman with a soft spot for her who always gave her a pot of real, clean water if she asked for it nicely, she was particularly drawn to another joint. Like all the others, it had no particular name; when people referred to it, they called it 'the inn on the corner of Port Way', and if possible, it was even more run down. It had other advantages though, mainly the fact that it was located inside a brick building that wouldn't get as hot as the corrugated iron huts elsewhere. Its main attraction though was its music box. The owner, a taciturn Keshiri, was a bit of a tech-wizard and had crafted an elaborate machine able to pick up outer-space radio waves (this was the reason for the gigantic silver dish that covered most of the roof), so – barring strong sun storms – the inn's patrons could listen to music and, should the mood take them, dance.

Rey was absolutely fascinated by the entire enterprise. Elmo had explained to her about the technical side of the machine, about radio waves; he had even thrown in some theoretical knowledge about music itself, though this was no area of expertise for a former Imperial protocol droid. The sound seemed like pure magic to the girl, an impression enhanced whenever she saw people dance to it, the way the notes seemed to draw and turn their limbs, like puppets. She had always hung around the tavern whenever she had a spare moment, but since Unkar Plutt had sold Elmo for a hundred credits to some pilot passing through, there was no getting her away from the inn. She forwent food and water, only to cower beneath one of the windows and listen, or sometimes stand on a serendipitous crate and peer inside to observe the drunken dancers.

Tonight, she couldn't have restrained herself though. The box had played one of her favourite songs and so she had stolen inside and tried to dance, too, behind the cover of a pile of boxes and barrels. The music had lifted her spirits as much as her feet, she had turned and turned and turned – and crashed into the boxes, and not half a minute later, the barman had lifted her up by the back of her neck and thrown her out.

Beaten, she had returned to her cubby hole in Unkar Plutt's warehouse, which was still open even though he had threated to lock it up a dozen times since she refused to work for him after he had so scurrilously sold poor Elmo. Sooner or later, everyone caring for her was forced to leave, first her mother, then her father, and now Elmo. She couldn't say how she knew it, if someone had told her or if she had overheard somebody talking, but she was well aware that her parents had been ordered to go on a super-secret mission, very probably to save the galaxy. Had she needed further proof, Unkar Plutt's furious hisses whenever someone brought the subject of her parents up would have assuaged any doubts she might have harboured. So that was alright. If only they returned soon! Every night when she had laid down, she had carved a small mark into a wooden pole supporting the rack in which she slept, ever since Unkar Plutt had told her this was her new home.

She conscientiously made another mark, then once again counted them. 1095 marks since her father had gone. How lucky that Elmo had taught her to count (he had also taught her how to calculate, adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing, with some stuff about rectangles, triangles and circles thrown in). 1095 days! How long did a mission as dangerous and secretive as theirs take? How long would she have to wait until he returned? And her mother, of course. Though truth to be told, Rey's memories of her mother were getting increasingly blurred. She had long ago forgotten her voice, and now only remembered how tall she'd been, her round hazel eyes, her lovely, lovely hair, and some pink spot on her throat shaped like a 'Leth' (Elmo had taught her the Aurebesh, too, and how to read and write). Her father though, oh, she remembered everything about him! His big, bald head, his twinkling eyes, his scent when embracing her before putting her to bed, his large, red hands and funny feet, and the way his beard had tickled her when she had given him a good-night-kiss.

Hold on, hold on. Even in the darkness, she screwed up her eyes to get a clear picture. Her father hadn't got a beard. He was perfectly bald, he didn't even possess eyebrows, or lashes. But she was _sure_ she remembered his bristles… Oh dear heavens, no, she was starting to forget her father, too!

Rey wasn't a child given to much crying, but that night, she cried herself to sleep, lonely and desperate.

In her dreams, she saw her parents again; she just knew it were them even though they were wearing flight helmets. They were all on board of a gleamingly white ship, the most beautiful ship she had ever seen, all lights and smooth shiny surfaces, and they were flying at mad speed, fleeing from some tentacled monsters, zigging and zagging up and down and left and right and somersaulting. Who was flying this ship? But she knew, oh yes, she knew. It was her friend, the Rebel pilot, who had given her his helmet. She often dreamt of him, he was a magnificent flyer, the best there was in all the galaxy, and even though he was _really_ short, and his head in the helmet was much too big for the rest of him, he cut a dashing figure in his orange jumpsuit.

The monsters turned into destroyers, mighty ships just like the ones crashed outside of Niima, who fired at them out of all barrels, but she wasn't afraid. Her parents were with her at last, and the little pilot would see no harm came to them.

 **22\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 23:30 GST**

 _I feel you  
Your sun it shines  
I feel you  
Within my mind  
You take me there  
You take me where  
The kingdom comes  
You take me to  
And lead me through Babylon…  
I feel you  
Your heart, it sings  
I feel you  
The joy it brings  
Where heaven waits those golden gates  
And back again  
You take me to  
And lead me through oblivion…  
I feel you precious soul  
And I am whole_

Depeche Mode _– I feel you_

For the first time in his life, Kylo notices that, disturbingly, the _Falcon's_ escape pod resembles a coffin. He can't see through the misted pane, so his gaze instead falls on the little sticker announcing that

' _This Escape Pod belongs to Han Solo.  
If found, please return to the Millennium Falcon._'

For a moment, this sight transports him back to his childhood. It was he who wrote this in his best calligraphy, when things were still… When he hadn't understood yet how messed up they were.

The condensed ice melts quickly in the warmth of the hangar, behind the glass he can make out a head – a face – kind eyes that seem to search his. _She's here_ , he thinks, almost in disbelief.

Their gazes lock; she smiles expectantly which, ironically, increases Kylo's anxiety and tension. If only she was scowling, if only she made any effort to attack him! But no, she smiles trustingly – while he is compelled to disappoint that trust and deliver her to Snoke. There really is no other way. When he can't endure it any longer, he looks away which prompts her to notice the Stormtroopers at his side carrying manacles and from the corner of his eyes he sees her smile dripping away.

For most of his life, Kylo has practised learning how to keep a grip on himself and most of the time, it works. Usually, he's battling with his anger or doubts, occasionally with affection for his parents. Anxiety, like now, isn't among his normal problems though, and it's not only that.

Accompanied by a bunch of Stormtroopers who lead her between them, he speeds for the elevator without looking at her once more. It's the elevator leading up to Snoke's floor though, no one without special security clearance is allowed in there, so the soldiers remain where they are and he suddenly finds himself alone with the girl in the narrow confines of the room.

It is quite a bit more than he was prepared for, especially since their last encounter.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the elevator door and tries to block it all out. Her thoughts, her confusion, her damned misguided hopefulness, her scent, her very presence so close to him. Even though he determinedly doesn't look at her, he gets distracted by the shade of her hair and her luminous eyes, her small hands that were so surprisingly soft given her work. He even thinks he sees her smiling in his head, despite the fact that he has never actually seen her smile. He can hear her voice with that strange semblance of a Core worlds accent, and is somewhat startled when she starts speaking for real.

"You don't have to do this. I feel the conflict in you."

Every muscle in his body tenses, but he keeps on staring straight ahead as if he didn't hear her.

"It's tearing you apart. Ben –"

Despite himself, his head swivels around at the mention of his name. His old, forgotten name. He isn't 'Ben' anymore, he is Kylo Ren, scourge of the galaxy. Still, it feels familiar, it feels like home. She has never called him by his name before, and says it with a kind of intonation that feels – well, tender, almost, and if he ever was on the verge of casting it all to the wind, it must be now.

"When we touched hands," she continues avidly, "I saw your future. Just the shape of it, but solid and clear. You will not bow before Snoke. You'll turn."

She couldn't have spent more than some days with Skywalker, the greatest – the _only_ Jedi of the age. Even Snoke, whose powers are unfathomable, is frightened of Skywalker. However, in that short amount of time the old man must have managed to turn her head, because what she asks of him – no, what she _expects_ , he can feel her absolute conviction; she is as sure of him as she is that day will follow night – is impossible. _He'll crush you when he gets what he wants._ Which is to happen right about now.

"I'll help you."

Her words are like an echo, a mirror image of his last conversation with his father, with her repeating his own words. _I'm being torn apart. Will you help me?_ And somehow, all the memories and impressions and ideas assailing him like a hail storm fall into place. Snoke wants the Jedi erased because they are the only obstacle in his way to absolute power; he is scared of Skywalker because he is the mightiest Jedi of them all. He meant to pitch the might of another Skywalker, one equipped with the additional powers of the Dark side, against his only serious foe, and sacrifice him like a pawn. He never meant for Kylo to succeed farther than confronting Skywalker and weaken the old man enough to deal the fatal strike, then perish in the fight. He'll sacrifice this innocent girl, too, without compunction, without a second thought. To Snoke, they are nothing but hologram figurines on a dejarik board.

But Kylo Ren has trained to be a Jedi for nine years and another four with Snoke. He is one of the three most powerful Force users in the galaxy at this point in time, and this girl is incredibly powerful with it, too. Forget about Skywalker; he is far, far away. Right here and now, there is only Snoke – and them. And as certain as the girl Rey is of him turning, he knows with absolute certainty that she _will_ help him. It wasn't the future he saw, it was much more. He saw _her_.

His voice is hoarse when he replies, "I saw something too. I know that when the time comes, _you'll_ be the one to turn. You'll stand with _me_."

The lift is already passing 22-C; in mere seconds they will have reached their destination and there is no way to stop, it might all be over in less than a minute. He has to give her what he can now, or he might never have another chance to say it.

"Rey, I saw who your parents are –"

She glances up at him, wide-eyed, but the moment is already gone because the elevator has stopped and the door is opening.

x X x

 **23\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 20/07/19 GST +**

 _"Where are the people?" resumed the little prince at last.  
"It's a little lonely in the desert..."  
"It is lonely when you're among people, too," said the snake._

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry _– The Little Prince_

Nothing on Jakku ever changed. The sun and the sand and the heat seemed as fixed as the stars in the sky, at least in Rey's eyes, just like her daily routine. She'd get up at dawn, fetch her assignment for the day (usually, she had to dismantle the more sophisticated machines for Unkar Plutt, or repair them, she had a knack for both), around noon, she'd go to the tavern for a glass of water, and before nightfall she'd receive her daily bit of food. It had been like this as long as she could remember.

There were 2630 scratches on the wooden pole of the rack she'd used to live in until she'd grown too tall to fit in. Now she slept on the floor in a Stormtrooper sleeping bag, which was much too big for her (at night she sometimes wondered if they'd slept in one of these in their full armour?), but she still kept on carving a mark into the pole, despite the fact that she sometimes forgot why she was doing it.

Why was she, anyway?

But that was one of the questions she tried hard to steer clear of. During the day this wasn't difficult because there was always more work to do than she could manage. The old blobfish seemed to have a knack to know when she was close to finish something and put another assignment on her workbench. At night though, in spite of her being so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open, she couldn't fall asleep, and questions like the one about the reason behind the marks on the shelf kept on bombarding her exhausted mind.

And it weren't only hard-to-answer questions. Some time ago, she'd obsessed for a days about a ship from Chandrila (even on Jakku, they'd heard of famous Chandrila), another time she hadn't spoken to Unkar Plutt for a week because he had declined an offer of five hundred credits (which had sounded like lots of money to her, even if she couldn't translate it into anything of value _here_ ) from a pilot who had wanted to take her with him to Lokori, wherever that might be. At night, she had stewed in her anger. Who did Unkar Plutt think he was?! Who did he think _she_ was! She wasn't his property! She could do as she pleased, couldn't she?

Well, during those long nights it had occurred to her (disconcertingly!) that she couldn't, really. Like everyone else in Niima Outpost, she depended on Unkar Plutt. No, not like everyone – she was more dependent on him than pretty much anybody else. Most of the others were scavengers; they needed him to trade their finds for food, yes, but that was a _deal_ between equals, in a way. Rey on the other hand was given both work _and_ food by the Crolute, if he were gone, she'd have nothing left. No food, not even a home. This bugged her badly, all the more because Unkar Plutt was such a thoroughly obnoxious old fogey.

Then there'd been that thing with the Teedo. One evening, while she was just preparing her ration, it had strolled along, chatted with her amiably, and in the moment the food was ready for consumption, it had simply snatched it and run off. Rey had instantly given chase and caught up shortly before the port, but not only had it eaten half of it by then, she had also lost the subsequent fight and instead of supper got a bloody nose for her troubles. Pretty much everybody had seen the whole thing, either the theft, or the thrashing, and even if she'd been offered a consoling word here and there, most of them agreed that she needed to learn how to defend herself.

It was one of those nights when she lay awake when she noticed what those well-wishers had had in common: regardless of species, they had all been females. Why was that? In her experience, females were no kinder than males, quite the contrary. Recently, more of the males had been quite kind to her, smiling at her, jesting with her; some had gone out of their way to do her a little favour she hadn't asked for nor needed, whereas the females were eying her with either concern or resentment.

When she'd eventually fallen asleep that night, she'd dreamt of ripper-raptors. _Beware, they're dangerous,_ she'd thought, not quite knowing why because at that time, they'd still seemed harmless enough. Then they'd shown their true colours and tried to rip her apart, of course.

Some days later, she was delivering a couple of spare parts for Unkar Plutt to the port, where a rather desperate pilot was waiting for them. She was just about to go back when one of the crew members, a large, fatty human man with a very red, runny nose, offered to show her around the ship.

"I don't have much time," she said unhappily.

"Then it'll have to be the short tour," he jollily replied. "I'm Kamen, by the way."

They started with a very swift peek into the cockpit, which Rey would have liked to explore more, but Kamen insisted they must not be found by the pilot or any of the crew, so they made a brief detour to the hull until reaching the engine room. Rey marvelled at the elaborate design, the many tubes and cables and cogs, until from the corner of her eyes, she noticed that Kamen had shut the heavy metal door. Suddenly, the room felt much smaller. _Too_ small. The air was stale and she could smell the man's unwashed stink.

"It's very interesting, but I must go now," she said and started towards the door.

He stepped in her way. Somehow she had known he would.

"Aw, come on, girlie. You haven't even seen the hyperdrive yet."

"I have to go. They – they'll miss me if I'm not back."

He grinned. "I reckon they won't miss you for another hour at least. By then, we'll be long gone."

There was a drop of snot dangling from his ruddy nose and in that moment, Rey thought she had never felt as disgusted by anything else she'd ever seen.

"I want to go. _Now_ ," she said as firmly as she could.

"Too bad." Keeping between her and the door, he came closer, then stretched out his hand to snatch her chin. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you?"

Rey jerked her head away and bit down on his hand with all her might. He roared and jumped back, but she didn't let go even though his frantic shaking threatened to break her neck. In addition, she clang to his arm for purchase so she could kick him with her boots wherever she could. Once he'd got over his initial shock, he easily pried her loose with his free hand, but she had already grabbed a spare pipe and swung it at him. There was a thickening thud when she hit his elbow; he screamed, and she hit him over the fingers which he had clapped over the injury. They broke, she could tell by the sound it made, and he screamed even louder. He wasn't very quick on his feet, but she was, so she could hit his knee caps, too, which finally felled him.

Not letting go of the pipe, she ran to the door and manipulated the lock with trembling fingers, but it wouldn't budge. Behind her, the man groaned and cursed, she was scared what he would do to her once he got back on his feet, so she tried harder but to no avail.

Suddenly the door was dragged open from the outside, but the whoop of relief stuck in Rey's throat as she gaped into the pilot's face, which was a mask of outraged fury.

"Oh ye stupid little bitch," he growled and she believed it was all over, all the more when he grabbed her by the shoulder. "What did ye think he want, eh?"

But then he just pushed her aside, entered the small room and started kicking his prone crewmember with his steel-capped boots.

Rey didn't wait to see what happened next but ran. She sped past the other parked ships and out of the town, over one dune, over the next, past a gigantic crashed destroyer, then followed along a narrow valley until her sides were stitching so badly she couldn't keep up the pace. Still she went on, slower, without direction, until she came to another wreck, where she crawled into a half-stripped propulsion unit. No one was going to find her here. More importantly, no one was going to see her crying, because that's what she did.

x X x

 **24\. aboard the _Katharsis_ , ABY 21/01/12 GST**

 _Fear is strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground._

Terry Pratchett _– Small Gods_

Baton in hand, Captain Phasma walked past rows and rows of Space Cadets. Arranged by height and dressed up like little soldiers but with open visors, they stood so perfectly still, so orderly, that she had to employ some creativity in order to make a show of her authority. Feet half an inch too far apart, not _maximum_ body tension (she didn't believe in 'Stand easy'), visible fingerprints on their glossy helmets, facial expressions not entirely blank were the only transgressions she could detect and persecute with a sharp blow and a barked reprimand.

The kids were used to the drill in general; every morning and every night they lined up like this in their respective battalions with some officer marching past and dressing them down for even the most minor offence. But this was different. This was _Captain Phasma_. Captain Phasma struck fear in the boldest of hearts.

FN-2187 was the first but two in his row (161cm) because he had the third-best ranking, ten out of ten in Physical Fitness, Marksmanship, Hand-to-hand Combat and Ideology. His record was marred only by a meagre seven in Strategy and Tactics, which had bugged him until learning that Captain Phasma was due for an inspection. A cosy third place in line, knowing that the captain would pay particular attention to the first (in order to remind them of their station lest they get cocky) and last (useless ballast, obviously), seemed very desirable all of a sudden.

While she imputed on FN-6022 (the first) that he must have cheated in his last Strategy examination, Phasma's shadow fell on FN-2187 and he had to remind himself to keep his eyes straight ahead. The captain was _tall_. Very tall. Much taller than any of the other officers usually in charge of the cadets. She was also very broad in the shoulder department and seemed even broader and taller in that full body armour made out of shiny chrome. Worst of all was her mask, because you could never tell where her eyes were, and because you saw your own pathetic reflection instead.

Poor FN-6022 was sentenced to sit that test once more to prove beyond doubt that he was no fraud. FN-1386 next to him received a hit on the elbow, FN-2187 got by with only half a minute of stern staring during which he imagined to be a statue, a statue of a war hero like General Hux, straight-backed and determinate, with the noble expression of the born soldier. It seemed to work because Phasma stepped further down the line, but FN-2187 only dared to exhale once she hit number five on the head with her baton.

x X x

 **25\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 20:17 GST**

 _If you twist and turn away. If you tear yourself in two again. If I could, yes I would if I could, I would let it go. Surrender, dislocate. If I could throw this lifeless life-line to the wind. Leave this heart of clay, see you walk, walk away into the night, and through the rain into the half light and through the flame. If I could, through myself, set your spirit free I'd lead your heart away, see you break, break away into the light and to the day. To let it go and so to find away. To let it go and so find away. I'm wide awake. I'm wide awake, wide awake. I'm not sleeping. If I could, you know I would If I could, I would let it go. This desperation, dislocation, separation, condemnation, revelation, in temptation isolation, desolation. Let it go_

 _U2_ – Bad

He has marched up to the bridge, where Hux raises his brows in astonishment to see him. He's even more surprised that Ren thoroughly ignores the ongoing pursuit of the remaining Resistance ships and instead bothers the officers monitoring incoming traffic.

"You are not to shoot at _any_ ship coming in and if they identify as General Akbar himself, without talking to _me_ first, do you hear me?"

"Stop ordering around my men, Ren!"

But Kylo ignores him and looks hard at the suddenly sweating officer in question. "Do we understand another, Lieutenant?"

The man casts Hux a panicked glance but he nods; instantly, Kylo loses interest in him and acknowledges Hux's presence after all.

"When will you finally learn it?" the general snarls. "You have no authority on this bridge, Ren!"

"I _am_ in charge of the search for Skywalker, General."

"So what!"

"I have reason to believe a – an informant on Skywalker's present whereabouts is making her way to the _Supremacy_. Therefore, it is imperative that she arrives here safely so she can be interrogated. Is that clear enough for you?"

Something resembling a smile (and a malicious one, come to that) is tugging at Hux's lips. "I take it you mean the scavenger girl who cut you up last week?"

"Possibly."

"I'll handle that –"

"Don't be ridiculous. She is strong with the Force, your men have nothing on her."

"Neither have you. Last time you met her she nearly killed you, if memory serves."

Kylo smirks. "Exactly."

Hux opens his mouth and shuts it again, puzzled. Ren looks as if he finds it almost comical that this little girl has all but disembowelled him – but hey, if she tries again and succeeds, Hux is most emphatically _not_ going to complain (though he might just throw in a 'told you so!').

Hux's confusion is nothing compared to Kylo's though. He's embroiled in a turmoil of fairly incompatible thoughts and emotions. Right on the surface, there is the old familiar hatred for Luke Skywalker, never forgotten, but boiling since that unexpected and unwelcome encounter (if this split second could be called that) just now. It's anything but predominant though; he would rather compare it to a particularly irksome insect not leaving him alone. More important and sombre is the grief he still feels upon his mother's death aboard the _Raddus_ , and the guilt both for her death and the fact that he thinks he ought to feel even worse about this. Because filling the entire foreground, and background, and most of the in-between, is a much more powerful feeling for which he has no name and would tentatively call 'joy' in the absence of a more suitable term. It mingles aspects of dizziness and queasiness, euphoria and anticipation, an inability to focus, shortness of breath, anxiety as well as hope and some kind of jittery inner tremor – in short: all the hallmarks of a nervous breakdown, or serious case of poisoning.

And that isn't all. For some reason he couldn't explain to anybody, least to himself, he's absolutely _certain_ that she will come to him, which opens a whole new set of cans of worms. For a start, the prospect heightens the nerviness and sense of anticipation, with a big whopper of fear thrown in, and while that girl almost killed him only days ago, he realises he isn't afraid _of_ her but _for_ her sake. Which leads to warring feelings of conflicting loyalties, though can you even feel ' _loyal'_ to somebody you hardly know, who's almost killed you _twice_ in the space of less than a week and fights on the wrong side of the trench? Apparently you can because he does. Every nerve in his body strains with the instinctive wish to shield her from Snoke and recoils at the knowledge that he can't; he might be powerful but he is no patch on his master as he once again learnt at his own cost only the day before yesterday when one flicker of Snoke's finger electrocuted him and threw him across the room. Also – and it shouldn't _be_ an 'also', it _should_ be his foremost concern, shouldn't it? – he has sworn an oath of fealty to his master and he stuck with it even through the loss of his own parents. He cannot betray that allegiance now over a person he met a few days ago! But she doesn't feel like the stranger that she in fact is. Even before their last encounter, she felt like an old, half-forgotten friend (or what he imagines _that_ to feel like, because there's never been anybody he'd have called his friend). _Now_ , she feels like – like – like…

He has no word for the kind of connection he feels with her either, but he just knows it is of the kind that his master wants him to exorcise. But only after he's got from her what he wants, which is the way to Skywalker. And so his confusion goes full circle and he's back at his darned uncle, whom he wants to kill even more fervently than even Snoke possibly may.

x X x

 **26\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 21/02/10 GST +**

 _But now I see I was not plucked for naught,  
And after in life's vase  
Of glass set while I might survive,  
But by a kind hand brought  
Alive  
To a strange place._

Henry Thoreau _– I am a parcel of vain strivings tied_

A week ago, she had found the most unlikely thing in the desert. She had spotted it, frowned, wondered, marvelled – and then she had done the single most stupid thing she could have done, for she had discovered a tiny, yet living plant, and dazzled by its improbability, she had _plucked it_.

Remorse was instant. Almost as soon as holding it in her hands to inspect it up close, saw the miniscule hairs on the leaves that were smaller than the nail of her little finger, gasped at its glorious greenness, she understood that she had destroyed the very thing she admired so, only so she could admire it a little bit more. She froze, but just for half a minute. Then she opened her canteen, dropped the stem into it and sped to the AT-AT walker which she had chosen as her new home. Once she got there, she poured some water into an empty tin can and put her treasure in it.

She stared at it for a very long time, still awed but with a heavy heart, until she could hardly see it any longer because the sun was about to go down. At this time of day, she usually went out to watch the sunset (which never failed to look pretty out here) and enjoy the cooling air, and she did so now. Pleasure did not materialise though – quite the opposite. Her mind was still fixed on the plucky little plant, which must have worked so hard to grow here of all places, and which her thoughtless selfishness had doomed to failure. Next, she was startled by the appearance of a snake close by until realising it was only a sand snake; they made a huge racket to cover up the fact that they weren't venomous. Then a couple of scorpions crawled almost over her feet. She finally went back inside when a Black Vipera (those were _really_ dangerous) showed up.

Most of the time, she managed to swallow it all down, the loneliness, the fragility of her hopes, but as she lay down on her makeshift cot, her small shoulders were shaking with sobs. How much longer would it take her parents to come back and get her? Would they come at all? How much longer could she endure it? Maybe she ought to go back to Niima Outpost – at least there were people there. But that was exactly the problem. She hadn't run away from her cubby hole in Unkar Plutt's warehouse, not from the work, the steady if small rations of food and easy access to water. It were the people she'd fled from.

When she had watered the broken plant, she hadn't really known what she was doing; she had merely meant to prolong the life she had taken for as long as she could, for even a girl with hardly any education living in the desert knew that plants needed water. What she hadn't known, couldn't have known perhaps, was that some plants could thrive, even after having been plucked, and strike roots in the water, ready to be planted once again.

This was what she discovered some days later. Gently, she held the wet stem and inspected the small wriggly, almost translucent roots growing. Luckily, she knew that roots needed soil. This miracle might have developed in the sands out there, but if she was to give it a chance, she needed actual soil. So the next time she walked over to Niima Outpost to sell her meagre findings to Unkar Plutt, she stole into the backyard of one of the taverns, where the barman kept a modest patch of herbs, which he used for flavouring his home-distilled schnapps. She scooped up some of the dark, crumbly substance that smelled somewhat mouldy, but incredibly rich and fine, and carefully filled another little can she had brought. Back in her AT-AT walker, she prodded a hole in the stuff, put in her plant and dosed it with another generous measure of water.

That evening, once again leaning against the felled leg of her walker and sucking in the clean, cooler air, she saw another scorpion scuttle along nearby. This time, it was at a safe distance and she watched with interest, almost fascinated how that small creature could survive in this most hostile environment. She suddenly understood that it needed to be as aggressive and venomous as it was, because it hardly stood a chance anyway. There – it appeared to have found its mark; a small dark spot in the interminable sands. A beetle, maybe? With great poise it rushed forth, as little prepared for what came next as Rey was herself. For it was no beetle that had dug itself in to protect itself from the sun, but a Black Vipera, that now, disturbed, reared up and stroke in the fraction of a second, too fast for a human eye to follow. The next thing the girl could see was the helpless scorpion wriggling helplessly in the snake's jaws, speared by the fangs, its mighty sting jabbing against the snake's plated skull with no effect. Slower now, the Vipera uncoiled and slithered down the dune until reaching a shadowy spot and devouring its chance prey without further ruffle or excitement.

Among the things Rey didn't know was the phrase 'memo to myself', but this was exactly what she took now. If you spot a dark spot in the sands, do not touch it, and if you absolutely have to, first poke it with a long, long stick!

This insight was the germ of a more general realisation coming to her as she was lying on her cot. Life in the desert was hard; no one wasted time and energy on unnecessary actions. Animals attacked for precisely two reasons: to eat, or to defend themselves – never for sport; hunting and killing for no reason was the sole domain of sentient beings. Human beings were at no risk to be attacked by snakes, or scorpions, or spiders for food because they were much too big for them to eat. The only reason for those beings to attack a human was if they felt threatened.

Oh well, so she wouldn't threaten them. She would continue to be careful where she tread, but there really was no reason to be afraid.

x X x

 **27\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 21/03/03**

 _Hate is the consequence of fear; we fear something before we hate it. A child who fears becomes an adult who hates._

Cyril Connolly – _The Unquiet Grave_

Art was one of the few fields of knowledge that Snoke had never much bothered with. As a young man, he had been exasperated by his people's devotion to it, squandering their considerable capacities instead of finding ways to save themselves. After escaping offworld, he'd really had more pressing concerns, too. Later, he had given himself to science, which didn't mix well with something so seemingly frivolous. Only now, in his dotage, he had realised that art for art's sake – or more correctly: the artist's sake – was the most rewarding of all disciplines. To shape the cosmos as one wills it was exciting beyond his wildest imaginations.

His favourite canvas was the soul of Ben Solo. The child was mixed up by nature, it was beautiful to behold him churning the colours, light of purest white, darkness blacker than deep space whirling, twisting and twirling. You poured in more black and could observe what he made of it; sometimes he turned darker, sometimes he countered with an explosion of additional light that he seemed to conjure up out of nothing.

It was much more interesting than Snoke's other project, because it was less predictable and much better protected. Brendol Hux's son _was_ alone, he needn't be isolated; he had lived his entire life in a state of martial emergency, surrounded by people who hated or despised or belittled him, and his only confidant was a woman not unlike himself in terms of lonesomeness and egotism, and in addition amoral, ruthless and unflinching, ready to do whatever it took to save her skin and if possible, advance. Hux junior had supported his father's way to the top not out of filial attachment, but because it had helped his own rise. Hux senior, hated by his only son but admired and trusted by his troops, had shaped the First Order into the war machine Snoke needed. Now he was superfluous to requirements, and his son would take care of the problem without much need to nudge him in the right direction.

Things were far trickier in young Ben Solo's case. He was his grandfather's son, meaning he had equal faculties for the light and the dark side as well as capacity for almost unlimited power. He was passionate and sensitive, so he reacted strongly to whatever influence he was exposed. And he was surrounded by powerful guardians trying to guide him. Both of Vader's children had inherited their father's skills, but their upbringing had steered them where Snoke could no longer reach them directly, and they were clearly determined to shield the boy likewise. They couldn't, though. They _couldn't_ shield him from the Force and its interconnectivity. Ironically, their resolution to see the child right alienated him from them, rendered him more vulnerable to outside influence addressing that other side in him. And they had made a crucial mistake when concealing the truth about Vader from him all these years, confusing and eroding his implicit trust in them and what they stood for, as well as stoking his fears and doubts about himself and his own nature.

Yes, Snoke needed that child in order to accomplish his goals, but he wasn't there yet, so he could just enjoy pitching his skills against such talented foes. Maybe it was about time to drop one of his secret allies a hint or two.

x X x

* * *

 _If you read and enjoyed this, I'd be ever so chuffed if you left me a review. Thank you!_


	4. Youth - Five Conversations

**III. YOUTH / FIVE CONVERSATIONS**

 _All my useless advice  
All my hanging around  
All your cutting down to size  
All my bringing you down  
All your stupid ideals  
You've got your head in the clouds  
You should see how it feels  
With your feet on the ground_

DEPECHE MODE – Useless

* * *

 **28\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , close to Crait, ABY 30/05/10, 17:45 GST**

 _Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am home again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am whole again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am free again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am clean again_

THE CURE _–_ Love Song

He is as sure to know what she's doing as if he could actually see her, as if their connection hadn't been interrupted, as if he had the faintest inkling where she even is. He can feel the darkness calling out to her and despite himself wills her not to seek it. The darkness is not for _her_ , she's too – too – young? That's nonsense though, isn't it? She isn't _that_ young; how old is she, anyway? Twenty, twenty-one? She is – she is… Well, she _isn't_ broken, she _isn't_ corrupted, she _isn't_ warped. _Yet_.

Nevertheless, he understands she has to do this, whatever it is, you can never overcome what you fear to confront. He has felt the loneliness in her, the hope as well as the despair, he knows how much it takes out of her to keep them at bay. He knows how much it takes out of him to banish them.

Not daring to hope they would see each other again so soon, Kylo has nonetheless stayed up and registered the shift in the atmosphere of his room announcing her presence with heartfelt relief, if only for a second or two.

His worries return with a vengeance upon seeing her stricken face; she is dripping wet and shivering as she slumps onto a small bench.

"Good heavens, what happened to you! Are you… Okay?"

The question strikes even him as ridiculous. She gazes back at him blankly, hugging herself against the cold, lifting her shoulders for a weak shrug and dropping them again as if it is too much of an effort. She sits still for a moment, then leans over to reach out for something which turns out to be a coarse woollen blanket into which she wraps herself. He watches in silence as she makes a small fire, listens as she starts to talk, about some hole in the ground calling out to her, how Skywalker warned her to stay away from that place as it contains powerful Darkness, how she went anyway and plunged into its depths, how she found a strange cave underneath the island that did even stranger things to her, how she eventually faced a cloudy mirror, how she begged to be shown her parents but ended up seeing only herself.

"Why didn't he want me to see _that_?" she asks, shaking her head. "It's not even particularly dark, is it?"

She looks at him as if he knew the answer, as if she expects him to be the resident expert on such matters. But he can only shake his head back at her.

"I had thought I would find answers here. I was wrong. I'd never felt more alone."

"You are not alone," he says in a genuine effort to console her, thinking of Skywalker and her Resistance buddies, and not expecting anything like the answer he gets.

"Neither are you."

And he understands what she means, and the meaning knocks him over. For all its outward simplicity and kindness, it's a thermonuclear bomb of a statement, with barbs on, invading his boundaries, overcoming his defences and exploding in shining bright glory that razes his armies, shreds his weapons and flushes light into bunkers so far underground that he has forgotten they are there. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words would come.

"It's not too late." She looks deadly earnest when she slowly stretches out her hand and like a man hypnotised, he strips off his glove and mirrors her movement, just as slowly, just as carefully until their fingertips touch as lightly as feathers, or butterflies, or snowflakes, with the same deafening quietness. And if he was floored before, the ground falls out from underneath his feet now.

Her past as well as her future unravel in his mind, not exactly in pictures, but all the more in firm knowledge. In a flash, he sees her life up to this point like a meteorite's trajectory, the rubble in its wake and the collision in front of her; he sees things she herself probably doesn't even remember, _couldn't_ remember because she was too young.

He sees a drunk young woman much resembling her except for the dead eyes and tight-lipped mouth, yelling down at her, stepping into a spaceship and flying off, feels the child screaming in despair. He sees a ragged man in his early thirties beating her, walking out on her. He sees a Crolute, hears him talking as if he owned her, because he does own her. They sold her to that creature! He sees a desolate warehouse in which she sleeps, sees her scratching marks for every passing day onto a piece of wood first, a metal wall later. He can even see, or rather feel, what that cave, perhaps mercifully, refused to show her.

Both are so lost in contemplation of each other and those unexpected revelations, they don't notice the footsteps of a running man until he bursts into the hut.

" _NO!_ "

Startled, he jerks his head around and for a split-second glimpses an irate Luke Skywalker just as the old man blows up the hut.

x X x

 **29\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 21/11/13 GST**

 _I am the man. If it be so, as 'tis,  
Poor lady, she were better love a dream._

VIOLA/CESARIO _–_ Twelfth Night

A small freighter on the way to Rakata Prime had stopped over at Niima Outpost and disgorged half a dozen weary travellers that were as shocked by the sudden onslaught of heat as lobsters thrown into boiling water, shading their eyes and emitting instantaneous groans. Only two of the group, an elderly-looking female and a younger one, had taken precautions and wrapped themselves in large blankets that covered their heads and most of their faces as well as their torsos. Unlike the others who teetered uncertainly this way and that, these two made a bee-line for the nearest shed, from where the old woman slipped from shadow to shadow, the young one in tow, more lithely than one would have given her credit for by just looking at her wrinkled, worn-out face, or what was visible of it, until she reached her destination.

This turned out to be what Unkar Plutt grandly called his 'office', which the older woman entered without hesitation, catching the hammer thrown at her with a swift move. The Crolute looked up in surprise, which grew once she shrugged off the blanket.

"Blimey!" he grunted. "Hadn't reckoned to see _you_ ever again."

The other woman slowly unwrapped her shawl as well, which made Plutt's jaw drop (an unlovely sight). "And who might you be?" he asked, already guessing the answer and nodding in bewildered satisfaction when it came.

"This is my second-oldest. Her name is Belo."

Plutt nodded, unable to tear his gaze away. The resemblance was uncanny. Next to him, his right-hand-man Prooker was on the verge of drooling until Plutt heavily stamped onto his foot.

"I want you to get my daughter here. Preferably without her father knowing." She put a fifty-credits-note onto the desk and gave him a significant look that woke him up from his entrancement.

"No." He shook his head.

The woman grinned. She was missing a couple of teeth, but it was still visible how beautiful she had once been.

"I'd figured you'd want to haggle, you old blobfish. Well, how much do you want for such a small favour?"

His fingers were itching when he – against everything he believed in – pushed the note back to her. "It's not a question of money."

"Come on, Unkar, spare us both this comedy. Money is the beginning and the end of all your dealings. I have six hundred credits with me, that's all. And I don't plan to give them to you, because frankly, it's preposterous, for I could just as well go out and search her myself. I am, however, willing to forego the trouble and offer you two hundred for this simple job, which, I am sure, costs you no more than one call."

"Oh you poor thing. She… Well, both of them… They – how shall I tell you – they're both – well, dead."

The woman swayed as if the heat had finally caught up with her and leaned heavily onto her other daughter's arm. "Dead?" she repeated, aghast.

"Yah. Dead. Perished. _Gone_. You know."

"But – how? Why?"

Plutt puckered his ugly visage. "The girl ran away. Into the desert. She'd died of thirst before we found her. Poor mite. The Steelpeckers had picked her half clean already, 'twas all we could do to dig a hole right there. And 'e – 'e just died of grief, I reckon. Shortly afterwards. Wanna see his grave? Well, I say _grave_ –"

Two minutes later, both women were gone and the Crolute let out a deep sigh.

"What'd you do that for?" Prooker asked.

"Can't risk losing my best pick, can I?" Plutt grunted.

Prooker was used to some callousness from his master, but this was taking it a bit far. He just gaped.

Plutt shook his head. "Believe me, it's better this way. What do you think she's been doing these past ten years? To end up looking like that? That's not for the girl. And speaking of her – she been waiting for 'em since she were a babe. She thinks they were heroes o' some sort. Leave her 'er dreams, I say, lest she follows that Kyrf-sodden whore and ends up just like 'er."

x X x

 **30\. on the planet Vingan, ABY 21/11/27**

 _Am taking legal advice to ascertain whether strangling an idiot nephew counts as murder. If it doesn't look out for yourself._

P.G. WODEHOUSE _–_ The Man with Two Left Feet

"In my office. _Now_."

Five minutes later, Luke fell into his chair and ran his good hand over his face. His nephew preferred to keep standing, possibly so he could scowl down at him.

"First things first – are you out of your bloody mind?!"

Ben preferred not to answer.

"You're driving me nuts, you really are."

The boy kept his resentful silence.

"You know, if I ever start drinking, I've got only you to blame."

This pathetic attempt at humour completely failed its mark, too.

"What happened?"

But Ben had clearly decided not to partake in this conversation. He stood straight as an arrow, arms clasped behind his back, on his lips the kind of pout that had been somewhat adorable in a four-year-old, and nowadays provoked in his uncle the wish to just spank his stubborn ass.

Stuck with both ends of the conversation, Luke went on, "Let me guess. Barko called you some name or other, you thumped him and things got out of hand?"

"Something along those general lines, yeah," the boy conceded with visible reluctance.

"Let me get this right – he called you Frosch, and for that you nearly killed him?!"

"I taught him a lesson."

" _Taught him a lesson?!_ " Luke heard his voice swelling to a shout, but couldn't help it. "If I hadn't come, you would have strangled him! You broke his nose, damn it!"

"Oh yeah? And since when do you care about such trifles?" Ben pointed at a chipped tooth. "Remember this? Remember how the Bull broke my arm? _Twice!_ And my leg? Or that time I got nearly drowned?!"

As if to justify his former punchline, but really because he desperately needed a stiff drink, Luke opened a drawer, chose a bottle, uncorked it and took a deep swig.

"Those were scuffles among _children_ , Ben. But now you are much stronger than any of the others –"

"I was always much stronger than they."

There it was, the trademark arrogance that you couldn't kick out of the kid because he was, in principle, right.

"But not so strong as to kill them over some stupid remark! You need to get used to these things –"

"Why should I? _He's_ not going to risk mouthing off again."

"Gods grant me patience! _Because_ you are stronger, you must be better in controlling your powers as well, Ben! You must fight it!"

"Fight _what_?" the boy asked challengingly.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean!"

"Yes, I do," he replied, suddenly quiet and contained, which troubled his uncle much more than his former recalcitrance. The dangerous sparkle was gone from his gaze, which now was lacklustre and distant, as if his mind wasn't even in this room any longer.

"You'll go to your room now and wait for me there. You're not to stick your nose out, and if the whole place is on fire – you stay right where you are."

The boy turned on his heel and marched out as undaunted as before. Luke rubbed his eyes and took another long sip. What was he supposed to do with this kid?! How was he to even punish him? There was nothing he was particularly fond of doing that you could forbid him; he didn't hang out with the other boys if he could help it, he trained because he had to, not because he liked it. Among the only things he seemed to enjoy these days was meditating, and that was the one thing which might actually help to make him calmer, so Luke would do his darndest not to prevent him doing it, even if, bewilderingly, he sometimes seemed _worse_ afterwards. The other thing was watching the stars, which Luke couldn't really prohibit either.

There was only so much kitchen duty you could impose on a boy. Ben was spending almost as much time washing up and weeding as he was training. Which didn't even take into account that throttling a fellow student should warrant a more severe punishment than cleaning privies.

Another drink later, Luke felt fortified enough to call for Jem and Qershi to obtain as objective a report as might be possible in these circumstances. Jem was one of Ben's friends – well, not exactly, because being him, Ben didn't _have_ any real friends, but he was certainly one of his admirers. Qershi on the other hand loathed Ben (and vice versa), in addition to being Barko's best mate. According to the latter – and much contested by Jem – Barko had made some silly little joke ('I don't even remember, it was harmless') and Ben had turned into a berserk. According to Jem, Barko had called Ben the 'spawn of evil', and when Ben had turned around and challenged him to 'say that again', he had added that Ben's mother was a 'dirty traitor', so Ben had boxed him ('but it was really harmless, he's just laying it on thick!').

Not for the first time, Luke wondered what had made him think he was in any way qualified to handle teenage boys, and that the only reasonable thing to do with the lot of them was locking them up individually until they turned, oh well, thirty or something.

He went up to see Barko in the infirmary, finding the kid in many ways as unhelpful as his opponent in the fight, although his reasons were so much more plausible. _Of course_ he didn't dare to tell Luke what he had said about that one's own sister. He admitted to having 'razzed' Ben – "but seriously, Master Skywalker, he's _got_ to be able to take a joke, hasn't he!"

Oh well, a broken nose and a near-death experience seemed enough punishment for this one. But what to do with the other offender? Barko was a mere bully, but Ben was a bloody _menace_.

x X x

 **31\. on Starkiller Base in the Unknown Regions, ABY 22/02/31 GST**

YZMA _: Excellent. A few drops in his drink, and then I'll propose a toast, and he will be dead before dessert.  
_ KRONK _: Which is a real shame, because it's gonna be delicious._

The Emperor's New Groove

Having been an integral member of the First Order since his infancy, Lieutenant Hux knew everyone and their brother, but he didn't deceive himself into believing any of them counted as a friend in the real meaning of the term. Those worth their salt were ambitious, unscrupulous and as ready to turn a rival's smallest mistake in their favour as he was. The only exception he made from that rule was in Captain Phasma's case. As the head of all the Stormtroopers, she was exactly where she wanted to be; he had been quite integral to her getting there – she wasn't only no threat, she was also sympathetic to his own plans and hopes and pet peeves, even if she didn't share them.

Brendol, for example, had been her mentor and protector and never given her any offence. She understood though that his son saw him very differently, and listened to his tirades with patience and the occasional piece of good advice.

"You'd think he'd support me and if only to satisfy his own vanity, wouldn't you?" the young man railed as they were sitting together one night. They weren't stationed on the same vessels any longer, so they seized any chance they got to share a drink (well, quite the opposite, in fact) whenever one of their assignments threw them together.

"Maybe it is the other way round?" she suggested. "Maybe it is his vanity that prevents him from wanting to see 'another Hux' advance, and possibly outshine him?"

"Precisely! That is _precisely_ what I think!"

She shrugged. "Oh, well. In that case, it's only a matter of time until your way is clear. He's – what, sixty? Sixty-five?"

"Haven't you noticed that none of the old geezers ever retire? They have to be carried from their posts feet first."

They both had to think of old Admiral Eighlor, whose greatest achievement was to survive even though entire battalions of his organs and faculties had surrendered long ago.

"Well, at least the Supreme Leader likes you. He'll make sure you're made a major after all."

Talking of very ancient men, were they! The Supreme Leader must be – phew – twice as old as the General. At _least_.

"Don't remind me. When I imagine the General gets as old as that, I'll be seventy before my next promotion."

"But the general isn't in very good shape," Phasma said. "Just think of all the pills he's swallowing."

"I am thinking of them. They keep him healthy and hale. The way he's going, he'll be ninety before one of his coronaries finally pops."

"Do you happen to know what he's taking?" she asked with a certain gleam in her very blue eyes. Hux knew that gleam, and in this moment, it made his heart sing.

He named what medicaments he could remember from the top of his head. At the mention of Basinol she raised her eyebrows, but he just waved his hands. "We can't poison him, they'd find out at once during the autopsy."

"So what. Accidents do happen."

"Don't toy with me, Phasma."

"You know that Basinol is an extremely efficient antiarrhythmic agent? You also know it is among the deadliest substances known to man? The therapeutic dose is one microgram per two litres."

"Fascinating," Hux snarled, but truth was, he was hooked. Phasma didn't soliloquise for the sake of hearing herself speak.

"The funny thing about it is that it reacts with sodium chloride, one of the most common and inconspicuous substances in the universe."

There followed a litany of chemical details that Hux didn't really comprehend, but he did get the gist: sprinkle a tiny amount of salt into a bottle of Basinol, and the agent would be bound at the bottom of the bottle, while the rest of the liquid was more or less clear water. Then, when you took that last dose from the bottom…

"And you know the best part?" she eventually asked with a grin.

He grinned back. "I believe I do, yes – when he takes that last dose, you and me will be half a galaxy away from the scene of the crime, won't we?"

x X x

 **32\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 22/07/24 GST**

 _My body grows and grows  
It frightens me, you know  
The old man tried to walk me home  
I thought he should have known._

U2 _–_ Twilight

All day, she hadn't felt well. She felt hot – well, hotter than usual, she had a headache, and her tummy was aching, too. She was also uncommonly irritable. A Teedo had strolled into what she considered to be her territory. On any other day, she'd have chatted for a bit, then sent him packing. Today though, she nearly hit it over the head with the stick with which she had been practising. She was even more rattled by that sudden outburst than the creature itself, and had to bite her lips to keep herself from crying. Later, when she accidentally dropped a rather rare ventral cannon laser lens, she did burst into tears after all, which really wasn't like her.

She hadn't been sick in – oh, ages. She remembered with horror that one time when she had. Her nose had been clogged, her head had felt like bursting, and she had coughed out big balls of icky phlegm, all the while feeling as if a star destroyer had dropped onto her. It had been nasty. Oh dear, she only hoped she wasn't coming down with something like that again! It had been horrible enough while living in Unkar Plutt's warehouse; she didn't want to imagine how bad it would be out here, without access to more water than the little she had in her cantina.

As the day went on, she was feeling worse and worse. There was a throbbing pain in her temples, and her stomach felt as if it was put through a mangle. It got so bad, she eventually went back to her walker on shaky legs in order to lie down in the shade, where she curled up and threw her arms around her knees. That was what it must feel like to be stabbed, she was sure. Again, and again, and again. Whenever she thought the worst was over came another attack.

'What if I'm dying?' she suddenly thought, half crazed and desperate. No one would ever know. The desert had its own native scavengers, there'd be no trace left of her even _if_ , in a month or two maybe, someone from the town or some Teedo should come looking for her. The idea was even worse than the thought of dying. Dying wasn't the worst that could happen to you, everyone died sooner or later. But to be gone without anyone knowing – without leaving any trace at all – without _anyone_ feeling the least bit sad…

And her poor, poor parents! They'd come back but wouldn't find her, they'd search for her _everywhere_ but she would have vanished, nobody would be able to tell them where she'd gone, they'd be so racked with guilt for not having come for her sooner. But by then, the steelpeckers would have torn her limb from limb and gorged down her flesh. They went for the eyes first (she squeezed them shut, just in case), and what was left of her would be a feast for the scorpions, and the Deathwatch beetles and the black bugs and the crimson ants and the what's-its-names, those silvery little critters with the many legs…

Then she saw the blood and knew she was dying for real.

x X x

 **33\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/10, 16:50 GST**

 _Started a landslide in my ego  
Looked from the outside to the world I left behind.  
I'm dreaming, you're awake  
If I was sleeping, what's at stake?  
A day without me.  
Whatever the feelings, I keep feeling  
What are the feelings you left behind?_

U2 – A Day Without Me

Unlike Captain Phasma and the likes of her, the force makes no demands on its practitioners in terms of physical fitness. Still, Kylo works out every day, he couldn't really say why. Force of habit, perhaps. In school, Skywalker kept a strict regime, arguing that tired boys made less mischief. When he was with the Knights of Ren, it wasn't so much training but ever-constant struggle and adversity that kept him in shape. Then he found Snoke, and suddenly, between brief but intense spells of activity, he found he was stuck inside the confines of a star destroyer with more time on his hands than he's ever had before and nothing useful to do, breathing nothing but reprocessed air. There is only so much meditation a man can do before starting to go funny, so he chose the only other activity open to him. He runs for an hour each day (if one can call it that, on that ridiculous machine that the soldiers call a 'treadmill'), he lifts some weights, spends another hour with callisthenics, swims two kilometres and spends as much time as he pleases with sword practise. After all that, he usually still has an entire day to kill, but at least he no longer feels so much like a caged animal.

Tonight, he's been running, but his stomach isn't entirely alright again, so he had to stop after just a kilometre. Maybe the old physician was right to insist on that damned bandage. He's just about to change when he feels as if someone had opened a door behind him.

Oh _please!_ Does it have to be right _now?!_ He was really looking forward to that shower –

'I'd rather not do this right now,' she says wearily.

'Me too,' he replies. Well, it could be worse. She could have appeared two minutes later. If she had, she could scarcely be more flustered though than she seems now, snapping at him to get dressed. Why, she does have a nerve! Who's bothering whom here!

"And? Are you a proper Jedi knight yet?" he taunts her, quite entertained by her embarrassment.

She keeps on averting her face. "I am learning a lot."

"Don't count on it."

"What was it that made you so – so…"

"Realistic?"

"I was going to say bitter."

"I believe you did meet the rest of my family."

"I did, and they're lovely!" She sighs and turns around after all. "Why did you hate your father? Give me an honest answer."

How quaint her views are. As if 'hate' came anywhere into it! It would have been so easy if he had hated either of his parents.

"You had a father who loved you! He gave a damn about you!" she continues in a tormented tone that is painful to hear.

"I didn't hate him," he concedes, wondering whether he tells her this because he wants to enlighten her overly simplistic philosophy, or because he feels the need to justify himself.

"Then why?"

"Why what?" Tears are running down her cheek, and he knows they aren't mourning for Han Solo. They are moaning her own father who did not give a damn. "Why what? Say it."

"Why," she sobs, "why did you kill him? I don't understand."

"No? Your parents threw you away like garbage –"

"They didn't!"

Back in school, one of the other boys had a bad tooth. It had tormented him for ages, but he had downright refused to let anyone take a look, let alone extract it, even when it began festering. In the end, Skywalker had four other boys, one of them Kylo, hold the kid down so he could pull it out. It was horrific and agonising and disgusting, but it had to be done. And this poor kid needs to face the facts, too, if she ever wants to get past them.

"They did. But you can't stop needing them. It's your greatest weakness." Her eyes are begging him to stop, but he continues, just like he kept on holding Logen down, back then. "You're looking for them everywhere, in Han Solo, now in Skywalker."

He is certain that she understands what he means. Why, after the disaster that her own parents are, even Kylo's father and uncle might appear like decent alternatives. Han Solo would only have disappointed her, but Skywalker is dangerous.

"Did he tell you what happened that night?" he asks once again. The question really bothers him. She's a nice person, no way she'd still think the sun is shining out of Skywalker's every orifice if she knew the truth.

"Yes!" she retorts belligerently, and her very tone tells him that his uncle lied to her. Of course he did, the bastard! Heaven knows what he'll do to her if he figures out how special she is.

" _No_. He had sensed my power, as he senses yours, and he feared it. One night, I woke up and found him standing over me, raised lightsabre in hand and ready to strike. It was all I could do to summon my own blade before he killed me. I didn't know what else to do, so I brought the ceiling down. I left him for dead. I thought he was."

"Liar," she says, but without conviction. Yes, she knows it is the truth, even if she cannot admit it. Yet.

There is so much he needs to tell her before it's too late, but seeing how their connections never last long, he has to take a short cut. "Let the past die. Kill it if you have to. That's the only way to become what you were meant to be."

x X x

 **34\. on the planet Vingan, ABY 22/07/24**

 _Years of love have been forgot  
In the hatred of a minute._

EDGAR ALLAN POE _–_ To M—

Sleep was not an option tonight, clearly.

Luke had turned on his cot and tossed quite a bit, too, until he decided he could just as well get up again and face his problems. Problem, singular, he corrected himself wryly. This particular problem had a name.

Ben's development had bothered him for a long time by now, an ever-increasing background noise of worry that had reached a pitch this afternoon. Luke had asked him and Barko to show the other boys a fight with their actual lightsabres. In retrospection, it was an incredibly stupid idea, but at the time he had thought it would do them both good to vent their animosity and get it out of their system. The fight had started acrimoniously enough, and soon they had hacked each other for real. Barko was older than Ben, taller and physically stronger, but Ben had drawn his strength from the Force and fought with such ferocity that he would have cut Barko's head right off if Luke hadn't intervened in the last second. When he jumped between them and halted Ben's arm from striking, he was almost numbed by the wave of hatred emanating from the boy, by the utter darkness –

Luke's feet were moving before his mind had caught up. What was he going to do? Make sure? Yeah. Make sure. His feet transported him to Ben's hut, his fingers unlatched the door, his eyes checked that both his nephew and Olly on the cot on the other side of the room were fast asleep. His brain could scarcely keep up with all the automatic motions his body went through. He saw his hand stretching out on its own account but didn't even register so much as he was hit by the massive wave of pitch-black chaos churning in his nephew's soul. He was deafened by death screams and explosions, numbed by red-hot rage and icy desolation, blinded by blood and fire and destruction. A hoarse voice seemed to whisper in his head, 'Take what is your birth right as last scion of the mighty Lord Vader', eerie laughter mingled with the moans of the dying; suddenly he saw the image of a young man clad in black armour wielding a red lightsabre and beheading Han and Leia and then he recognised the man to be none other than their son and understood that what he was seeing was a glimpse of the boy's future.

Once more, his arms were quicker than his thoughts could follow; he had his own sword in hand and ready to attack. 'You can still prevent this,' he faintly thought, 'you can stop him, you can end this if you strike now. Strike! STRIKE HIM DOWN!'

He stared at the weapon in his hand and tried to backtrace his thoughts up to this point. What the hell was he _doing_ here?! Was he seriously contemplating to murder his own nephew – Leia's only child, for crying out loud! – on the strength of – _what_ exactly…? His gaze flew back to the youth on the cot, only now realising he had woken up at some point during all this and stared back at him, or more exactly: the lightsabre in his hands, in sheer terror.

Until this moment, the seconds had seemed to stretch out forever; now it went all very fast. Ben summoned his own sword and blocked Luke's blade from striking, his eyes wide with confusion and fear and rage.

"Ben, no," he yelled, but it was too late. Much, much too late.

x X x

 **35\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/09, 20:15 GST**

 _I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too._

FRIDA KAHLO _–_ Diary of Frida Kahlo

Food in the First Order is nothing to write home about, but luckily, Kylo doesn't know that. He's been used to bad food all his life. Well, not 'bad' as in 'unhealthy', at least during the first half and since he joined, but as in completely tasteless, so he doesn't mind the processed rations at all. When he overhears the officers complaining about the 'mass slop', he always thinks they're just being prissy.

He rarely eats in the mass though, not if he can avoid it (and he usually can, he is Kylo Ren after all). Instead, he takes the tray to his chambers. At least no one stares at him here. Not having to listen to other people's inane chatting is another plus; he likes to enjoy his meals in complete silence. He'd assume that other people do, too, and converse just out of politeness. Or logorrhoea, as the case may be.

So when, quite out of the blue, a vision of the girl appears right behind him, just as she's biting into something that even he finds revolting, sheer courtesy prompts him to say, 'Oh, excuse me' before thinking twice, closely followed by 'Is that a _squid?!_ '

She gives him a put-out look but doesn't stop gobbling.

'I take it you did find your island after all.'

Her eyes turn twice as wide in shock, she stares at him slack-jawed which is _not_ a pretty sight, with half a tentacle hanging out of her mouth.

'Calm down. Unlike Jakku, most inhabited planets have some large body of water. I'm no closer to solving the riddle than I was before.'

She visibly relaxes and continues to wolf down the beast. Watching her eat is something of a spectacle, and an education. That, he realises slightly perturbed, is what a life of want looks like. He has been hungry before, too (right after running away… Suffice to say the times weren't plentiful), but he is almost sure he's never been so singularly focused on something to eat as she is, just there.

'Aren't you at all curious how this even works?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. Am I disappointing you? But then, you see, I'm just a lowly scavenger from the back of beyond. We humble folks do not concern ourselves with the mysteries of the universe.'

Blimey, she _is_ cranky. He's just trying to make sense of what is happening to the both of them! 'Sarcasm doesn't suit you.'

'How lucky we both are that that's none of your business.'

'Why the heck are you so hostile?!'

She glares at him in something like bewilderment. 'Why, for a start I don't fancy being kidnapped, or tied up, or my head messed with! Then you killed your own father, then you almost killed my friend, then you tried killing _me_ , too –'

'I didn't –'

She cuts him short, 'Not to speak of your First Order! They killed an entire _planet_ , damn it!'

That they did, and worse. 'Three, in fact, you're forgetting the two suns that were drained, not to mention the systems –'

Quicker than a frog snatching a passing fly with its tongue, she lashes out and throws the disgusting squid at him. He feels the deep _thud_ of the icky creature's impact on his face, the squidgy, gummy-like consistence of its skin, the suckers gaining purchase on his cheeks; he can even smell the pungent stench. It's just an illusion, but that makes it only minimally less disgusting. This is like being back in school, which was the last time when someone actually threw their food at him. Back then, it was a mess of pottage, he recalls.

Then she's gone and he is alone in his room like before. Well, he was alone all along, that's kind of the point of this whole mystery. All the same, his skin still itches where the suckers hit him, he still has that tangy smell in his nose.

This is intolerable. He can't keep on encountering the girl like this, who either tries shooting him, or bombards him with seafood. Why is she like that! Oh, alright, she's given him a number of fairly valid reasons, but she must see his point, too. He's as appalled by the destruction of Hosnian Prime as she, he _had_ to kill Han Solo, the darned deserter appears to have survived, and he didn't try killing her, he merely tried to prevent _her_ killing _him!_

x X x

 **36\. on the planet Zutatta, ABY 22/08/05 GST**

 _It is not the criminal things which are hardest to confess, but those things of which we are ashamed._

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU – Confessions

Han cast his wife a deeply concerned look. She'd been sitting like this, straight-backed, rigid, her eyes wide-open, for days. She'd done nothing else, she hadn't spoken, she hadn't cried, she hadn't _moved_. This passivity was so unlike Leia, it worried him almost as much as the fate of his son – which he was still far from believing.

According to Luke, Ben had supposedly engineered a revolt in the Jedi temple and massacred each and all of his fellow students. Han had never had a reason to doubt his brother-in-law in any small way, but _this_ tale was too tall to swallow. He _knew_ his son. There was no kinder boy in the galaxy, none more obedient. Sure, he wasn't exactly even-tempered, puberty was unlikely to have made _that_ any better, and on a bad day he could absent-mindedly push a whole city into darkness, and then there was that damn Vader heritage. But the kid was still alright. Nobody would convince his father otherwise.

When Luke returned ten days later from informing all the other parents of the dead children, Han had made up his mind. This must be a misunderstanding. A mix-up. Clearly something had happened at the academy, some kind of attack, but it could impossibly be Ben's doing. He surely had managed to flee and now got the blame because he wasn't to be found among the bodies…

Patiently, Luke listened to Han's ramblings with a sad face. Leia appeared not to have heard a single word; she was still staring into nothingness.

"I'm sorry, Han, but I can – I _must_ – assure you there has been no mistake. He had already turned to the Dark side –"

"Nonsense!"

"You know it's true. You must have felt it, too."

"I've felt no such thing and if I know anything, it's that my boy couldn't harm a fly before we gave him to you!"

"You knew the Dark side was strong in him."

"Seriously, I do _not_ know that. _You_ keep on preaching about the Force, and the Dark side, and the Light, and what else have you got. All _I_ know is that our son is a good kid, if anything, he was a bit _too_ good –"

"Powerful light, powerful darkness," Luke said unhappily. "Darkness won."

From the corner of his eye, Han saw Leia move. When he had turned his head to her, she had already gotten up, her formerly stricken face had morphed into a mask of rage as she strode to her brother and dealt him a resounding slap.

"What did you do!" she hissed. "Tell me! Tell me what you did!"

Han looked at her, half shocked, half admiring. This was Leia on warpath. This was _familiar_. This was the woman he had fallen in love with, fierce, furious, not taking bullshit from anyone.

"I told you. I went to his room to confront him about the rising darkness I had sensed in him, he –"

" _No_. Tell me the _truth_. Han is right. He would _never_ have attacked you out of the blue. When he – _snapped_ – he _always_ had a reason."

Luke stared at her for a minute, then slumped down on a chair and ran his good hand over his face. "You're right," he mumbled at last. "He _had_ a reason. I… I did go to his room that night. He was asleep, and I – I used my powers to ascertain what I had only sensed before. I… Leia, I saw the future. _His_ future. And it was more horrible than anything I can tell you. I didn't think, I just reacted by blind instinct. Without knowing it, I held my lightsabre in my hand, only one thought in my mind – I can prevent this, I can… Then I noticed what I was about to do and subsided, and when I looked back at him, he had woken up and – and…"

Leia swallowed. Once, twice, she curled her hands into fists, swallowed once more. Han fully expected her to jump at her brother and beat him up, was ready to throw himself between them, but when she spoke, her voice was icy.

"Get out of my house. I never want to see you again."

Luke wordlessly obeyed her, looking almost relieved, and without turning around once more. Han stared after him in nonplussed incredulity. "What – what the – what's it mean?"

Leia disregarded the question and stabbed her forefinger against his chest. "You – for once in your life, your sodding contacts may be useful. Go to the docks. The gambling dens. Go wherever those shady friends of yours are. Show around Ben's picture. Tell them – tell them whatever. I want my boy back and I will do whatever it takes."

x X x

 **37\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 22/10/17 GST**

 _At night  
I hear the darkness breathe  
I sense the quiet despair  
Listen to the silence  
At night  
Someone has to be there  
Someone has to be there  
Someone must be there_

THE CURE – At Night

During the day, she often found it difficult to concentrate because she was so damned tired. But once she was lying down at night, sleep would not come.

One would assume the desert was quiet, but especially at night, it came to life. She heard the slithering of the snakes, the bustling of the bugs, and worst of all, the constant never-ending rhythm of the Deathwatch beetle knocking their trunks against the sands as a desperate call for a mate.

How well she understood them! What she wouldn't have given for a friend. She had scarcely enough to live on, but she would have shared it all without a second thought only to be alone no more.

If it got too bad, she got up again and walked a mile during the moonlit dunes, over to one of the tanked super-destroyers. It had a flight simulator, and if one knew how and thumped it in all the right places, it still worked now and then. One could simulate to fly a TIE-fighter, a middle-sized frigate or even a destroyer, and so, while she couldn't sleep, she at least learnt how to fly, or that was what she told herself.

One day, when her parents returned for her, it would be her to fly them out of this hell. They'd be so proud of her. They were heroes, but still they would be so damned proud of their daughter. It couldn't be long now. Not long.

x X x

 **38\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/09, 11:00 GST**

 _Hopelessly fighting the devil futility  
Feeling the monster climb deeper inside of me  
Feeling him gnawing my heart away hungrily  
I'll never lose this pain  
Never dream of you again_

THE CURE _–_ Untitled

Kylo's office on the Supremacy is located next to one of the many repair and assembling shops and separated from it by a large pane of soundproof glass. He's aware that he was assigned this particular place as a snub; it's an engineer's office that not even a Sub-Lieutenant would have accepted – to make him remember that the Supreme Leader may indulge him to command troops, but that doesn't make him one of _them_. Little do they know that he actually likes his office; it's much lighter than most rooms on the inside of the ship and he enjoys the bustle behind the window. Even as a child ( _especially_ as a child) he has loved ships and fighters, to watch them being fixed, to see the sparks flying is familiar and soothing.

He stands behind that window now, trying to collect his thoughts and bring them into some kind of order. He can't come to grips with the idea that he's an orphan now; it seems strange and unreal. He hasn't seen nor talked to his parents for almost nine years before their deaths and had anybody asked him last week if he wanted to, if he missed them at all, he would have answered with conviction 'hell, _no'_. Yet now that he never can again, he feels a wild sense of regret. He would have loved to talk to his mother once more, and if only to tell her how much she let him down.

The master was right after all, wasn't he? He is _no Vader_. He's too soft, he has no control over himself, or the remnants of light within him. Case in point: that short encounter with the girl and Skywalker has rattled him to an unreasonable degree. Surely, it's no use to dwell too much on it, although the question how this was even possible is intriguing. He briefly wondered if he should ask the master what it might have been, but almost instantly dismissed the idea. He cannot trust himself to face Snoke at present, their last encounter still stings too much.

The feeling of a presence where a second ago was nothing makes him turn around. This time he doesn't even flinch. The girl stands there as she did before, wrapped in a cape this time due to the – rain? Something tells him rain even though he can't see any. She has been engrossed by something, a quite serene expression on her face that instantly changes as soon as noticing him.

'Why is the Force connecting us?' he asks her like a complete fool – how would _she_ know if even he doesn't; she doesn't know the first thing about the Force. Yet he can't stop himself. 'You and I.'

'Murderous snake!' she hisses instead of an answer. He somehow keeps on forgetting how much she hates him. 'You're too late! You lost! I found Skywalker!'

'Did he tell you what happened?' He's genuinely curious how the old hypocrite has spun it. 'The night I destroyed his temple, did he tell you why?'

'I know everything I need to know about you!'

'You do?" He surveys her face, angry and outraged as it is. He almost has to smile. 'Ah, you do. You have that look in your eyes. From the forest. You called me 'a monster'.'

'You _are_ a monster.'

Even though a moment ago, he felt like toying with her, like teaching her a lesson about how little she truly knows, and mocking her youthful idealism, he suddenly finds he's as affronted as she. Another thing he keeps on forgetting is her knack for seeing his core.

"Yes, I _am_ ," he retorts with hurt relish.

Again, her reaction stumps him. There's no triumph; instead she seems puzzled as she knits her brows and opens her mouth for a reply that won't come.

x X x

 **39\. on the planet Klytus V, ABY 22/12/26**

 _I can endure my own despair,  
But not another's hope._

WILLIAM WALSH – Song: Of All the Torments

"Han Solo! That you of all people should dare showing your face here!"

"Evening, Kraduk," Han countered that not-too-hopeful welcome. "Odler. Effi. Lads."

"You owe us ten thousand credits, Solo! And with interest since – since…"

"Ah, ah, not so fast. It's not my fault that Hupo didn't pay you as he promised."

"He might have, if you hadn't escaped from his dungeons!"

"Yeah, but do you seriously expect me to stay there only to make sure my captor gets the bounty?"

While Kraduk, a tall, not too bright Imroosian, considered the argument, Han seized the opportunity to scan his gang. There was his right-hand man, a feisty human called Odler, a Morseerian called Effi and a wily Weequay whose name Han could never remember. The other three, a masked guy, a female Drivok and a fierce-looking Holwuff, seemed new talent. Together, they were considered to be the A-list of bounty hunters these days, and even if Kraduk and Odler might feel they had some scores to settle with Han, they were his best bet. He had tried every other road already.

Eventually, Kraduk appeared to conclude that any possible retribution for a crime that happened twenty-five years ago could wait a little more. "What do you want?"

"He's going to offer us a fortune he hasn't got for getting his son back," Odler, always quicker than his boss, said.

Kraduk grinned, creasing his face in a most disconcerting manner. "Ah, yes. Got yourself a bit of a black sheep there, Solo, uh?"

"Is it really true he killed everyone at that school of his?" the Weequay threw in.

"No!" Han snapped. Well, Luke was alive, wasn't he, and so, hopefully, were those other boys whose bodies hadn't been found. As for the others – Han still found it hard to accept that his son should be responsible for what had happened. His bewilderment though was nothing compared to Leia's grief.

Prickly by nature, she was positively irascible by now. He could never go home without her greeting him right at the doorstep with some variation of, 'Don't even bother coming in if you haven't got him!' She believed that he knew every shady character between Askaj and Zygerria and that it couldn't be so hard for these to locate one boy between them. Unfortunately, more than half of these wanted to shoot him on sight. Then, there were all those folks he owed money to. Not to mention the bounty hunters such as Kraduk and his gang perfectly prepared to collect the money they would get for his head, not caring whether it was still connected to his body. Nevertheless, he was ready to brave them all, if there was but the slightest chance of finding his son.

The Holwuff sneered. "Let me get this right. You want us to hunt down a Jedi who already killed a whole lot of other Jedi?"

"Don't worry about that," the kid in the mask joined the conversation. "I'm quite good with the Force myself."

"How many Jedi did you kill, then?"

"More importantly – how do you mean to pay us? I know for a fact you're broke," Odler said with an unpleasant sneer.

"That's easy. I'll offer you what I've offered everyone else," Han replied. "Whoever gets me my boy will get the _Falcon_."

x X x

 **40\. aboard the _Gulbaria_ , ABY 23/01/30 GST ./. on the planet Jakku, ABY 23/09/07 GST**

" _What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well."_

ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY _–_ The Little Prince

In his eighty-second year in this fair galaxy, Lor San Tekka, explorer, adventurer and leading member of the Church of the Jedi, was overcome by a strange feeling whilst travelling to Isde Naha in the Western Reaches. He made a note of the coordinates and decided to inspect the source of that oddity at leisure once his mission was complete.

Seven months later he did just that, packed up his most prized possessions, his star charts and books, the ceremonial staff and the flute, and soon found himself in the unlikely spiritual village of Tuanul on the planet Jakku. So far, if he were perfectly honest, he hadn't known that planet even existed, and soon after landing he thought he knew why it wasn't more popular. Between the sandstorms, the intolerable heat, the shortage of water, the improbably rich insect world, the daggerworms and the occasional Mosrk'tecks, neither Tuanul nor Jakku in general should have appealed to Lor San Tekka's palate. Yet he knew with absolute certainty that this was going to be his new home. Even more, he knew that this would be his last home, too. He was going to die on Jakku, he felt it in his bones.

x X x

 **41\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/08, 14:25 GST**

 _Oh I talk to you, you walk away.  
You're still on the down beat  
You say you don't want my help.  
But where can you go to leave yourself behind?  
Alone in the spotlight of this, your own tragedy.  
But you can't escape if you're running from yourself._

U2 – Red Light

What the hell was that?!

Five minutes later, he realises he is still rooted to the spot in the same hallway, slack-jawed, his mind spinning. Passing officers give him strange looks, but then they always do.

Slowly, he walks back to the medbay and lets the robot finish its job, all the while racking his brains. She can't have teleported here, she isn't that powerful – _yet_ , at any rate. Also, if she'd been teleporting, he wouldn't have felt Skywalker's presence in the background. The same's true for projectioning – she couldn't have done it, and he wouldn't have sensed Luke. What is more – she was clearly as surprised as he was by their encounter, so she couldn't have put any conscious effort into achieving that aim. Maybe she tried something else, and it was an accident? Or maybe she is dead, and it was her Force ghost that appeared to him…? And does that mean Skywalker is dead, too?

Nah, she's alive, that much he _is_ sure of. Of course, the only dead person he's ever talked to is his grandfather, but that is very different indeed; it's a mere voice in his head, not a full-blown apparition shooting at him.

The master always said that the stronger Kylo became, the stronger his equivalent in the light would become. They both assumed this was Skywalker, but what if they were mistaken? What if it really is that girl?

It can't be… Can it…? And what would it mean if it is?

x X x

 **42\. Hanna City on the planet Chandrila, ABY 23/07/22 GST**

 _And the battle's just begun  
There's many lost, but tell me who has won?  
The trenches dug within our hearts  
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters  
Torn apart.  
And it's true we are immune  
When fact is fiction and TV reality.  
And today the millions cry  
We eat and drink while tomorrow they die._

U2 _–_ Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Methodically, he checked the locker, all drawers, the space under his bed and threw one last glance into the bathroom. All clear. He snatched up his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder. It was surprisingly light. He'd have imagined that after seven years with the Republican Navy, it'd be somewhat heavier.

He felt a little peaky, but that was probably the result of the farewell party the night before and not the wistfulness he'd also have imagined as he was turning his back on everything he had worked for so hard. Instead, his predominant feelings were annoyance for the pig-headedness of his former employer, and excitement for the unknown waiting for him at his new post.

In the hallway, he heard someone call him. "Poe!"

Turning around, he looked into the face of Captain Cal Merone. Captain! If anything irritated Poe, it was that even now, the guy was still one step ahead of him.

Cal flashed his trademark grin that could light up entire rooms. "Sorry I couldn't make your party last night."

"That's all right."

"But I wanted to say goodbye all the same."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Being him, Cal wasn't easily put off. His face turned earnest. "I'd try talking you out of this nonsense, but I reckon your mind is made up –"

"It is."

"It's a shame, Poe, a real shame. You're one of our best pilots. You were set for a great career."

Poe scoffed. "A career of what though? Of sitting still and twiddling my thumbs while all around us, the Republic is falling to pieces?"

"You believe that seditionist propaganda?"

"Oh, come on, man. You're out there, too. You _see_ what is happening in some of these places. You must know what's coming."

"I know things aren't going the way we hoped, or not as quickly. It takes time –"

"The Empire ruled for twenty years. You'd think another twenty years would suffice to fix it. But instead we're pretty much where we were after the war, and for some worlds, it's decidedly worse than then."

Cal shook his head. It was as infuriatingly graceful as anything he ever did. "It pains me to hear you of all people talk like that. You were always such a staunch defender of the Republic."

Poe hated, really _hated_ that he had to look up to the other man. He had come to terms with being only five foot eight a long time ago, but right now, he would have given a lot to be six two and see eye to eye with him.

"Yeah, and I still am. That's why I want it to come through."

"So the rumours are true? You're joining the seditionists?"

Half of his mates had reacted like that, in some way or other, when hearing that he had handed in his resignation. They resented the group around General Organa that no longer bought the appeasement slogans while all over the galaxy, small local wars erupted, planets were raided for their resources, or bombed for apparently no reason at all. On some level, Poe understood why the Republic couldn't act any other way: it was up to the Senate to decide the course of action, otherwise they'd be really back under tyranny. On the other hand though, he didn't entirely trust that same Senate, or rather, some of its members. Not all of them were good, upright people such as Senator Gulan of Jianoo, or General Organa when she'd still been a member. Some, like the ancient Senator Pamlo of Taris, were simply scared, scared of another war, scared of conflict, scared of the other Senators. And some we just complete bastards, who were in this game for self-aggrandizement, or power, or money, or – whatever it was they believed the New Order would give them. Senator Ro-Kiintor of Hevurion, Senator Leahy of Taanab, or the entire bunch from the Cularin system. They weren't only corrupt themselves, they also intimidated, coerced, blackmailed or bribed their colleagues into following their lead. They weaved plot upon plot and lie after lie, they played down the danger, covered up the atrocities, disgraced their opponents and made them unbelievable. When he thought of the campaign that had driven General Organa out, he wanted to put his fist through a wall, or preferably, into one of their visages.

He worshipped that woman, who, in his eyes, should have been Leader of the Senate for life. And he would follow her lead to the end of the galaxy and beyond.

"Don't give me this crap, Cal. You know as well as I do that that's rubbish. We're all on the same side."

"So how come I've lost some of my best people to them? How come _you're_ defecting as well?"

"Defecting! Boy, wait for one more hour until I'm officially out so I can thump you without assailing a superior officer!"

"You know what I mean."

Poe shook his head at him, not hoping it was anything as elegant as when Cal did the same, and turned back around. "Bye, _Captain Merone_. You really shouldn't have bothered."

"Say hello to your father for me," Cal cried after him, but Poe marched away without another look.

x X x

 **43\. aboard the _Supremacy_ , ABY 30/05/08, 14:20 GST**

 _Just as I am  
I awoke with a tear on my tongue  
I awoke with a feeling of never before  
In my sleep, I discovered the one  
But she left with the morning sun.  
I'll be with you now  
I'll be with you now  
I'll be with you now  
We lie on a cloud, we lie._

U2– Another Time, Another Place

Exhausted, he lies down after the raid, but sleep would not come. His memories vacillate between the dark blue sensation of feeling his mother's presence and the white-hot pain of seeing the command bridge where he knew her to be, exploding. Interspersed with these are his throbbing self-recriminations of inadequacy. Was the master right, after all? Is he too soft? Does he have _too much of his father's heart_? If his grief at his mother's death wasn't enough proof, surely his inability to pull the trigger on her must be.

Unable to face himself, he gets up again. Time to rip off the bandages and live with the scars.

But Rear Admiral Wakeshi doesn't see things his way and flatly refuses. "I can hardly contain my sense of wonder, my dear boy," she says conversationally. She's a rather sweet old dear and the only person in the entire Order which he tolerates to patronise him. She served under his grandfather already, you'll not get it out of her. "Imagine, only a week ago, I would have wagered a year's food rations that your spleen, intestines and at least one kidney could not be saved, and that – should you miraculously make it through the night after all, you'd be disfigured for life. How hungry I would have been! Just look at yourself now!"

"Yes, ma'am, that's exactly why I want to get rid of the bandage –"

"Don't be ridiculous, young man. I remove that bandage and you can carry around your own stomach in a basket. The Supreme Leader would never forgive me if anything happened to you."

He gives her a wry smirk. "You may find he's changed his mind in that regard, ma'am."

"Nonsense. He simply isn't any used to deal with failure in you of all people." He winces for the first time during the whole examination and she gives him a pat on the back. "He's got such high hopes for you. We all do."

It's no use arguing with her, no use at all. If he told her that most of her colleagues hate him with a passion, she'd just pat him some more and say that he was imagining things.

"On the bright side –" Wakeshi continues and shakes her head at him when he snorts at that turn of phrase. "On the _bright_ side, the cut is healing _very_ nicely."

He touches his cheek absent-mindedly. "Yes."

"I'll have the robot remove the tape. You know, my hands aren't as steady as they used to be."

"I beg to differ, ma'am."

"You old charmer," she giggles and gives his uninjured cheek a squeeze. "I'd be such a pity if I messed this up, you're healing so fast and so well. With a bit of luck, the scarring will be minimal."

Kylo sighs. He feels he _deserves_ that scar, the ghastlier the better. It ought to serve as a perennial reminder of his father, of his failure, and of his mother, too.

The sheer thought of her makes him wince so hard that the robot's tiny scissors break his skin. A single droplet of blood oozes out, quickly to be removed by the robot. His mother! Gods, he cannot _believe_ she, too, is dead! The feeling of her still lingers –

Wakeshi's beeper buzzes and she jumps up at once. "The Supreme Leader," she announces, gives him one last friendly squeeze and bustles off, calling over her shoulder, "See me again tomorrow, my boy!"

Left alone, Kylo tries not to wince under the robot's ministrations. It doesn't so much hurt as itch, especially when it gets to his throat. The robot unwhirls the first millimetres and reveals a clean pink scar that is more reminiscent of a shaving accident than the total carnage the Rear-Admiral patched up only days ago.

Maybe it's all too much for his circulation; he feels a sudden sting in his guts, a chill much at odds with the well-heated infirmary, a strange change in his acoustic perception, as if he is hearing the sound of seagulls. Even the lighting seems somewhat affected. He jerks his head, pushes the robot away and for a second, he thinks he sees _her_. The girl. His nemesis out of nowhere.

'Great, now I'm finally losing my mind,' he thinks. Or are these just hallucinations due to belated side-effect of those painkillers?

He can't but gape at the apparition staring back at him with loathing, clear as daylight, so real as if he could reach out and touch her. To make the nightmare complete, the vision grabs a blaster and shoots at him, hitting him full centre. He _feels_ the impact throwing him back in his chair, the heat of the bolt, the dull trauma that is much too quick to allow actual pain just now. Looking down at his chest though, he finds his tunic intact, no singed holes, no blood, no nothing. _Of course not!_ These are only figments of his imagination, after all!

There's no one here!

 _Go looking for her!_

But he's all alone!

 _Go! Look! Find her!_

Without any contribution from his conscious self, he jumps up and out of the room, sprints down the corridor, catches a glimpse of white in a side corridor and nearly topples as he tries coming to a halt. There she stands. Bold as brass. This is _no_ hallucination, he knows it! All the same, none of the passing officers seem to notice her, which is more than troubling from a sanity point of view.

Still on automatic, he raises his hand. "You will bring Luke Skywalker to me."

There's a strange feedback of his own voice echoing in his head. The girl has clearly heard him, too, glares back, but is otherwise completely unimpressed. He drops his arm and feels like an idiot.

She is _here_ , just two metres away, as real as anyone. Yet she _can't_ be. Has she teleported to this place? Or is it a projection? _Impossible!_

"You are not doing this, the effort would kill you," he tells her as much as himself. She's still staring, in mute bewilderment. There is a kind of blurred aura around her.

'Can you see my surroundings?' he asks, this time not speaking out loud but only in his head. Let's see what this is…

She hears him all the same as she seems to wake up from her shock and spits, 'You are going to pay for what you did!'

'I can't see yours. Just you…" And what a strange sight it is! In her white clothes inside this sombre, electrically lit corridor, she looks like some sort of mystical painting. He'd be perfectly ready to credit her appearance to the aftereffects of the medication Wakeshi forced him to take, or maybe shock from his mother's death. But an enervating voice in his head tells him she's real, as real as anything. 'So no… This is something else…'

She keeps on glaring at him, then suddenly jerks her head around. There's a strange reverberation, not coming from her, but familiar and…

'Luke.'

x X x

 **44\. on the planet Jakku, ABY 25/10/21 GST**

 _There are two ways of spreading light: to be  
The candle or the mirror that reflects it._

EDITH WHARTON _–_ Vesalius in Zante

When she was on her own in the desert, Rey craved company. Whenever she came into Niima Outpost though, she instantly remembered why she had left that godforsaken place. Luz, another scavenger, had tried to steal some of her findings from her glider before she had even got off. Empat and Cloch, those two creeps, had tried hitting on her, the old blobfish had tried short-changing her and she had gotten into a physical fight with a drunken stranger. She had been much quicker, but he had still landed one good hook on her jaw that had sent her staggering into Naktene's tavern, dribbling blood and asking the old bartender for a glass of water and the permission to use what he jokingly called his 'bathroom'. It might be nothing more than an unspeakably dirty hole in the ground, but at least it had a sink with running water which might not be fit for consumption but suffice to wash off the blood.

She let the lukewarm water run over her head until it was pink no more, then wiped her eyes with the bandages around her arms. Something sparkling – and in so far absolutely incongruous with the rest of the room – caught her eye. A second look made her realise it was some kind of shard, but why was it so shiny? With great care, she picked it up from the floor for closer inspection – saw a human eye staring back at her – and dropped it in horror and disgust. Strangely though, the eye seemed gone and was replaced by a kind of greyish grime. The same hue that disfigured the walls of this place… She cautiously waved her hand and caught a glimpse of the same movement in the shard. So it was simply reflective – a mirror, right? She'd heard of those, but she'd never seen one in real life before.

Slowly, she picked it up a second time to take a curious look at herself. This time, she quite simply froze. What she saw was too incredible to be taken in at once. She knew those eyes, those brows, that mouth, but it took her a full minute to understand why. Then it hit her quite out of the blue and she dropped the shard a second time.

It were her parents looking back at her.

x X x

* * *

 _Author's Notes_ : Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the story so far – or if you didn't – I'd be eternally grateful if you left a review :)


End file.
